


Thou Shalt Not Suffer

by TheWizardsHarry (Chaltab)



Series: Young Defenders [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Religious Conflict, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 78,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaltab/pseuds/TheWizardsHarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was eleven years old when I first heard about Hogwarts, but my faith told me everything about that school was evil. This is the story of how I reconciled my religion with the truth about what I am.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Visit from Albus Dumbledore

Before we start, I want to make it clear that my parents weren't bad people.

They weren't cruel, and I know they loved me dearly. They took the actions they took because they were firm in their beliefs, and even though I no longer share those beliefs—the ones that caused me so much pain as a child—I still respect them. Or, at least, understand them. We magic people are feared by those who know about us. We're the Other, the Unknowable, and people always fear what they don't understand. Having been raised in a Fundamentalist Christian home gives me a unique perspective that most people in the Wizarding world don't have, and understanding current events requires an understanding of that Muggle subculture. Which is why I decided to write this book. I expect many of you to begin reading with certain prejudices, and those are understandable. But I hope you'll come away with a new outlook as well.  
  
It all began in the summer of 1991, and it began—like the stories of everyone who attended Hogwarts—with a letter. I don't remember what I'd been doing that day, those I suppose I'd been at school or playing outside or any number of other things eleven year olds do. I found the letter in the garbage—you see, I'd dropped an earring into the trash can, and of course being the obsessive, finicky little girl that I was, I would not rest easy until I'd found it. But I found something else while digging—a piece of parchment. It had been wadded up, so I unwadded it and smoothed it out on the coffee table, and I read it.

 

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore_

 

I giggled. Hogwarts? A witch's school? I decided it must be a joke and read on.

 

_Dear Michelle Coplin_

 

That got my attention! The letter was addressed to me, so the joke was on me.

 

 _I'm writing to inform you that you have been found to be gifted in the magical arts and have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As a child born into a non-magical family this is an honor. You will receive further instructions over the summer regarding your enrollment. Please see the enclosed list of books and equipment you will need along with instructions in how to reach Diagon Alley. If you need further assistance, please respond via owl._  
  
We look forward to seeing you.

_-Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Master of Admissions_

 

I put the letter down, not sure what to think. On one hand, it seemed like a pretty funny joke. But I'd heard some strange stories about people doing creepy things to children. What if they expected me to fall for it, and get me alone so they could murder me? Or sell me to some slavers in Zimbabistan, where I'd be forced to slaughter goats and cook smelly goat-meat for the rest of my life?

I had never heard of Hogwarts, and all I knew of witches and wizards was what I'd seen in cartoons and heard about when my parents taught me the Bible. And none of the latter was anything good. Feeling a strange foreboding, I threw the letter back in the garbage and didn't mention to my parents that I had found it. (And I never did find the list of books that was supposedly enclosed.)

I only thought of it sporadically over the next few days, but then Sunday came and I found myself along side my parents in church. This wasn't unusual, but it was unusual that the first thing out of the preacher's mouth that Sunday was about witchcraft. I can't remember if he'd ever preached about that subject before, but I listened attentively that day. The sermon seemed to go on forever, but I sat transfixed and horrified as Pastor Wilkins laid out what seemed like every verse in the Old and New Testaments that condemned the craft. He particularly focused on these two:

 _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live._ Exodus 22:18

 _There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer._ Deuteronomy 18:10-11

  
Pastor Wilkins said that anyone who practiced witchcraft was evil, a servant of Satan, and destined to spend an eternity in hell with him.  
  
I left church that day terrified out of my mind. What if the letter was real? What if I was a witch?  
  
Normally, I would have quickly dismissed the 'silly' notion. But the more I thought about it—and believe me, I had trouble thinking about anything _else—_ the more it made sense.

Things seemed to happen sometimes when I got emotional—strange, inexplicable things. When I was very young, I remember I'd wanted an American-style chocolate chip cookie so badly, but the cookies were stashed up in the cabinet and I couldn't reach them. I started shouting at my mom for a cookie, throwing a little tantrum. And then the door flew open, and the cookies fell out and spilled all over the floor. We both just stood there staring at them for a minute before I decided to grab one and run off.

And a few years later, I was watching a cousin at a Martial Arts tournament, and I saw him losing his match to a kid about three times his size. I was getting mad, because my cousin was so clearly out matched, and the other kid was hitting too hard, but the referee didn't seem to care. So I just sat there and glared at him, and my cousin threw this kick. It wasn't a pretty kick and I honestly don't think it even touched the big kid. But he went flying anyway, like he'd been hit in the chest with a blast of hurricane-force wind.

I never thought that I'd done that at the time, but now, in retrospect, my imagination was running wild.

One day that summer I sat in my room doodling. Usually I would doodle doves and crosses and little silly faces, but that day I was obsessed with something else. I was drawing little witches hats and brooms and ravens—my ravens were just little wide 'v's of course.

There was a knock at the door, so I slipped out of my room and headed down to answer it. I got there about the same time as my mother, who had her brown hair done up in a fancy bun because she was going to a Bible study that night.  
  
“I'll get it,” she said.

So she did, and standing in front of us was a most peculiar sight. It was a man, elderly, with a long white beard and half-moon glasses. Instead of normal clothes, he wore long robes with moons and stars woven into the fabric, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with a strange wisdom, the kind that comes with many long years and many hard lessons. I recognized this even as a child.  
  
“Excuse me?” my mother said, her eyebrows arched. “A bit early in the year for Halloween, isn't it?”

The man smiled. “Yes, quite,” he said. “But it will come soon enough. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I'm here to speak with you about your daughter Michelle.”

Mother's eyes went from curious to furious, and a scowl formed on her face. “You're the one who has been sending her all those horrid letters, aren't' you?” she demanded.

  
The man called Dumbledore frowned—he didn't seem so much offended as he did... disappointed.  
  
“I assure you, dear madame, those letters were no joke. Please, invite me inside and we'll have a talk. I can explain everything.”

My mum glanced down at me looking worried and told me to go to my room, then she looked back up at Dumbledore skeptically. “Just you wait right here,” he said. “I'm going to get my husband. If you come in—”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” he said solemnly. “This is your home, Mrs. Coplin, and that is a boundary I respect.”

I'm not sure what exactly happened next, because my mum turned and glared at me and I ran back up stares. I waited until I heard her come back and—with no hospitality at all—invite the old man in. I frowned, waited till they had gone, and quietly made my way down the stares. My parents and the old man were in our parlor, and I slid up against the wall and started listening to what they were saying.  
  
“You've been giving us nothing but trouble,” said Father scornfully. “Your infernal letters could have put dangerous ideas in my daughter's head, you know. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”  
  
“I've done many things I'm ashamed of,” said Dumbledore, “but inviting your daughter to my school is not one of them. Your daughter has a gift—an incredible gift that she should learn how to use.”

“Sorcery!” my mother interjected. “Witchraft! Devilry! That's what you say you want to teach her.”

“The first two, yes,” Dumbledore answered carefully. “But I will do my best to ensure that none of our students learn any of the latter.” He paused for a moment, and then his voice grew thoughtful and bemused. “Though in my experience, adolescents have a knack for learning plenty of devilry with or without the help of their instructors.”

“Even if we were to allow our daughter to join your cult—” my father paused as if he expected a correction from Dumbledore, but when none came, he continued. “Even if we were inclined to embrace this nonsense, how do we know this is legitimate? You sound like a bunch of nutters to me, a bunch of bloody psychopaths.”

“There is much fear and superstition about magic,” Dumbledore admitted. “It's one of the main reasons we practice in secret and also the main reason I chose to visit you personally today. However, I assure you that our powers are very real, not cheap parlor tricks, nor are they the work of the devil.”

I heard movement; Dumbledore whispered a word that I couldn't make out, and my parents gasped.  
  
“Witchcraft!” my mother shouted. She sounded on the verge of hysterics. “I knew it! It is real!”

I heard Dumbledore let out a deep sigh of exasperation. “I take it, then, that you will not allow you daughter to attend?”

“Of course not,” said my father evenly. “In fact, I want you and your sorcery out of our house this instant.”  
  
Dumbledore sighed again. “Very well, then.”  
  
I heard him stand up a walk out of the parlor, and I tried to press myself against the wall harder as if I could melt into it and hide. At first he walked on by, and I thought he might not have seen me as he rounded the corner, but then he glanced back over his shoulder and gave me a sad smile. Mum and dad followed him out into the hall, both glaring at me with livid eyes when they saw me. They said nothing, however, until Dumbledore had gone out our front door.  
  
“You will go to your room,” they said. “We will not speak of this again. Ever.”

Not long after that, we went on a brief vacation to a beach in Spain, and the rest of the summer my parents kept me busy—doing projects for the church, taking me shopping with them, and anything else they thought would help me forget. For my part, I pretended to forget, and I never said another word out loud about the whole ordeal. In time, I convinced myself that Dumbledore was evil, and that he was a crazy murderer who wanted me indoctrinated into his cult, like that crazy Muggle out in America, Charles Manson.

Eventually, I thought I'd never hear the name Dumbledore again.  
  
Of course, I was wrong.

 


	2. A Summer Holiday With Aunt Amanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My sneaky aunt invites me to stay at her home for summer holiday, but I suspect she has ulterior motives.

I didn't go to Hogwarts that fall—I went back to my normal Muggle school and had to put up with Muggle teachers and Muggle lessons. And despite having convinced myself that Dumbledore was a fraud and that Hogwarts was a trap, I found school utterly boring that year. Not that previous years were all that different—this year just seemed especially so. My curiosity and my imagination had me wound up like a little mechanical toy, but school was like a vice grip that prevented my parts from moving. End the end, I barely managed to squeak by with passing marks in the fall term.

The Christmas holiday was a welcome relief from the boredom of school. As the 25th approached, my parents and I dashed madly about, making preparations, because we planned to have much of my extended family out that year. My uncle Nicholas was bringing his trademark beef jerky, a recipe he had supposedly learned from a Native American reservation he had visited years ago. My grandparents were bringing their most excellent fudge, and many cousins were bringing themselves—so naturally I was excited to have someone my own age to talk to. But most of all I was excited to see my mother's step-sister, Amanda.  
  
Aunt Amanda was that one special relative that I was always glad to have over, who never got on my nerves. She always had an interesting story or a fun diversion planned. She rarely raised her voice and always apologized when she did. I loved her dearly, as did most of the family.

She was my mother's sister, and they were usually friendly to each other, she and Mum. However, I always got the sense that there had been some bad blood between them over the years that they'd never quite worked out. I didn't know or question why; I just always tried to temper my enthusiasm about seeing Amanda when my mum was in the room.  
  
The evening she arrived I was doodling in my sketch book in the front parlor, and I kept tossing excited glances out the window, hoping she'd be pulling into our drive at any minute. Sometimes she would bring over some strange board game I'd never heard of and we'd play for hours. I hoped that would be the case this time. Or maybe one of her stories about dragons—the vivid details she gave made it seem almost like dragons were real.

When she finally got there, I watched as she carried her bags down the hall and past the parlor; I threw my sketch book down, rushing in to greet her. I saw my mum duck out of the room and into the kitchen, and that's when I made my move, rushing up behind Amanda and wrapping her in a tight hug.  
  
“Guess who!” I said, certain she couldn't see me no matter how much she craned her neck. She was rather tall, after all.

“Kelsey?” she said, naming my cousin but knowing it was me. Her red hair bobbed as she cocked her head to the side, miming intense concentration.

“Nope!”

“Cornelius Fudge?”

I giggled. “Who?”

“Hm.... Is it Michelle Coplin?”  
  
I laughed and let go, and she turned around and wrapped me in a big hug too. “It's good to see you, Michelle.” She smiled, looking down at my bare feet and then up at my stringy blonde hair. “You've grown a lot, dear.”

“I'm almost pubescent!” I beamed. “Pretty soon I'll be rebelling against authority and whining about how nobody understands me.”

“I'm sure you will, dear. Now listen, I've got to unpack my things, and then I'll come down and we can talk all about the weird transformations that you're body and mind are going to go through.”  
  
“Okay!”

  
I watched her head up the stairs, and then slipped into the kitchen where mum was pouring herself some tea. “Aunt Amanda's here!” I said, for once forgetting to keep my enthusiasm dampened.  
  
My mom's face flickered, a sad smile appearing and almost vanishing in the same instant.

I can't help but wonder if she had already suspected.

*******

Christmas Eve was wonderful. My extended family all gathered 'round the table for dinner, prayed for God to bless our food, and then spent the entire evening talking and laughing about the past year and all the things that had happened therein. Of course, there were a few details my parents left out involving a certain letter from a certain school and a visit from a particular wizard. I wisely said nothing on the subject either.

  
As we were about to go to bed, there was a shout from outside in the voice of one of my younger cousins, and I pulled the door open just as two furry black things rushed past my legs, barking madly.  
  
“Eustace's dogs are in the house!” I called, rushing to the parlor, where I found them tearing apart a cushion. “Bad dogs!” I shouted, and grabbed their improvised chew toy. I tried to pull it out of their mouths. It was a valiant effort, but ultimately futile, and the cushion was ripped to shreds before Uncle Eustace was able to get his dogs to calm down. He dragged them back outside, where my little cousin Trisha was standing, the seat of her blue jeans covered in mud and snow.

 

She cried something about wanting to open the cage to pet the dogs; when she did they'd knocked her on her bum and rushed by, heading straight for the door to the house.

  
_Stupid dogs,_ I thought. They had tracked mud all through the hall and into the parlor. My mother and Amanda both appeared in the threshold behind me, and my mother instructed me to go upstairs and gets some dirty towels out of the hamper to wipe up the mud. I thundered up the stairs as quickly as I could, while Mum stalked off, I figured to get something to clean the rug.

 

I ran back down the stairs with an armful of towels and made it to the parlor before my mother.  
  
And I stopped dead in my tracks, because all the mud the dogs had tracked in was suddenly gone, the only evidence that it had ever been there in the form of my aunt wiping a spot on the wall with a single dirty paper towel that couldn't have possibly cleaned the whole room. Her right hand was hidden in a pocket inside her coat, but she removed it with an action that she must have thought to be inconspicuous. I only remember it now in hindsight, really.

 

“Wh...where did all the mess go?” I asked, staring at the sparkling clean room.  
  
“Oh, I got it,” Amanda said. “No worries.”

 

I stared at her for a moment, and then turned and took the towels back up to the utility room.

 

The following morning we exchanged gifts; Amanda had bought me a copy of the game _Super Mario Bros 3,_ which I cherished even though I didn't have a Nintendo to play it on. I could always take it over to my friend Rupert's house. I got various other gifts from the rest of my family, and Amanda gave my mom a rather wicked-looking gothic mirror that she hanged in the parlor.  
  
Of course, when she did so that only brought my thoughts back to Amanda's mysterious, impossibly fast clean-up of said parlor.

It would be another six months before I'd get answers.

 

*******

I finished out the spring term with better marks than the fall term and went into the summer holiday with my mum and dad easier to get along with than they had been before. On the first week out of school, I was walking home from Rupert's house (he lived just two houses over) and saw the postman stuffing envelopes into our box. I waited for him to leave and then grabbed all the post and took it inside, thumbing through it just in case the rare letter for me came through. Next week was my birthday and I had expected my grand parents to send some pocket money—or at least a note wishing me a happy twelfth.

There was nothing addressed to me, but one letter did catch my eye—a letter to Mum and Dad from Aunt Amanda. Totally ignoring the scorn I knew I'd receive from my parents, I ripped the envelope open and read it.

 

_Dear Olivia and Don_

_I hope you're both well and that things are going swimmingly at work, for both of you. I'm actually writing in regards to Michelle, God bless her. She's awfully pale, and I wonder if she doesn't spend too much time inside. I was wondering if you would allow me to invite her to stay with me for a few weeks this summer. I feel that a little fresh air and hard work would do her some good. Olivia, I know we've not always seen eye to eye on some matters, but you know I love Michelle as much as any aunt could love her niece. I'd like to have her on her birthday, if possible, as I've got a surprise I'm sure she'll enjoy._

_  
Thanks for your quick response_

_Love always_

_Amanda_

 

'Thrilled' doesn't even begin to describe the emotion that fluttered through me. Spending multiple weeks out at her house was like a dream vacation. I'd only been to Amanda's house once, when I was about five years old, and I barely remembered it. She lived out in the country where an old farm used to be. Now she had several greenhouses that she tended, originally the dream of her husband. He had died about twelve years ago, before I was born, and Aunt Amanda never talked about him much except to say that he was a good man.

Just then I heard keys scratching at the door, and I panicked. I threw the letter down on top of the others on the worktop in the kitchen and took off up the stairs, flopping onto my bed as I entered my room. I grabbed my sketchbook and hastily sketched out something that might vaguely have looked like David fighting Goliath. If you looked at it in a fun house mirror. Wearing foggy glasses.

 _Act non-nonchalant_ I told myself.

I expected mum to storm up the hall any minute, and my mind began racing with all sorts of negative possibilities. What if they made me clean the toilets? Or worse, what if they said I couldn't go to Amanda's? I'd been such an idiot, opening that letter.  
  
I kept waiting for a long time, and didn't leave my room until my mother called me down for dinner. I saw all the letters on the worktop neatly stacked and opened, while my parents sat at the table and prepared to eat. I sat down with them, and we prayed over the food and began eating. Mum and dad talked briefly about their day while I stabbed vacantly at my potatoes with my fork. Finally, my mom looked over to me and spoke.  
  
“Michelle, dear,” she said, “Your father and I got a letter from your aunt Amanda today—”

I don't know if she trailed off, or if I interrupted her. “I'm sorry!” I squeaked. I winced, waiting for the reprimand.

My father blinked. “Sorry?”

I stared at him silently for a second, tossing a glance at Mum too; if they didn't know what I was apologizing for, I wasn't about to confess.

“As I was saying,” my mum continued, “Amanda wanted you to spend a few weeks with her this summer. At first I wasn't keen on it...” Mum definitely trailed off this time, her voice suggesting that she didn't want or need to explain why she wasn't keen on letting me go.  
  
“But I think I've talked her into it, sweetheart,” Dad finished. He turned to Mum. “I think Amanda's jolly right: the fresh air and sunshine would do Michelle some good. All she does during the summer is sit in the house sketching or playing Nintendo with Rupert. Unnatural, it is. Girls her age need to get a taste of life outside the home, like ol' Queen Jezebel.”  
  
“You don't have to press the point any farther, Don,” mum said. “You've already convinced me.”

“And wasn't Jezebel eaten by dogs?” I asked pointedly. My father looked at me and blinked apologetically. “Oh right. I guess I was thinking of someone else.”

I sincerely hoped so. I did not want to be eaten by dogs.

*******

 On my birthday, July 11th, I arrived at Amanda's house. It was just outside of Beverly in East Yorkshire. After bidding my parents goodbye, I dragged my trunk up the grassy hill to her cabin, looking warily for any vicious dogs in the vicinity. Seeing none, I approached the big brown mahogany door. Not finding a bell, I knocked several times and waited. A moment later, the door slid open and my aunt welcomed me in.  
  
“I'm so glad they let you come out here,” she said, leading me into the kitchen. “Here, make yourself at home. I was just poured two cups of tea, help yourself. I'll take your bag upstairs.”  
  
She grabbed my bag and took off. I took the tea and immediately felt better, as soon as it touched my lips. I started walking around the house, taking in the details. Some things were just as I remembered them, but even my clearest memories were a bit hazy. The front room was massive, with a ceiling as high as the entire two-story house. The walls were dotted with small photographs and other knickknacks, and comfortable looking armchairs and couches sat around a small table in the middle of the room.

There was a stone fireplace on the far side of the room, but no fire was necessary with the heat of summer encompassing the house.

I sank into a green armchair and sipped my tea for a few minutes, until Amanda came back down the stairs holding a long rectangular box wrapped up in green paper and yellow ribbon. She handed it to me, a big smile on her face. “Happy Birthday, Michelle!”

I pretended I had no idea the surprise was coming, and honestly I was excited enough that I didn't need to fake the smile. I ripped open the paper and threw it on the floor, and opened the box to find...  
  
“A broom...?” I said, staring at the red broom in the box. It was definitely a broom, though, it seemed as though it were a broom designed for racing—which was of course, an absurd notion. There were golden letters emblazoned on one end of the broomstick that said _Roc-360,_ which was absolute gibberish to me. I pulled it out and stared at it.  
  
“Do you want me to do chores or something?” I asked, feeling disappointed and rather hurt. “I mean your big surprise you wrote about was a broom?”

She smirked. “Read my letter, did you?”

 _Oooh, busted_. I blushed.

Amanda continued, “Someone has got to teach you to do your share of the chores,” Amanda said. “And don't worry sweetheart, we'll still have time for fun. I just don't want you to think you can lay about all day like you do at home.”

“I do not!” I said, perhaps too defensively.  
  
“Don't you?” she crossed her arms over her chest. “Other than the church activities your mom makes you go to, what do you typically do during the summer?”

  
“Um, well, I usually draw,” I said, trying hard to think of how I could make Amanda understand how hard I worked. “And... sometimes I trim hedges for my father, and once I helped the lady across the street clean out her gutters. Though I'd rather not do that again, if I can help it.”

She nodded. “Well, good, good. I don't need my gutters cleaned, fortunately. But while you're here, I'll expect you to help me with the gardening, to help out if I need you in the Greenhouses, and to always pick up after yourself and clean your own messes.”

“I'm twelve, Amanda, not five.” I was trying hard to stay mad at her, but the mental game of Twister (a Muggle game in which the players twist their bodies in compromising positions in order to touch colored dots) I was playing kept ending with me falling over in the face of her logic.

I had to admit, I was pretty lazy.

“But for now,” Amanda said with a smile, “I've got tickets to see _Batman Returns_ at the cinema, and if you don't go with me, you're going to have a very boring night with the house all to yourself.”

I beamed. “You _are_ the best aunt ever. Even if you give crummy birthday presents.”

An hour later we were about to depart in her ancient Ford Prefect when I looked down the hill from her drive and noticed a row of greenhouses sitting between us and the setting sun. Three of them looked normal, but the one farthest to the right was overgrown with weeds all around it, and looked burnt out, as though a fire had ravaged it years ago.

“What happened to the fourth greenhouse?” I asked as I sat down in the front seat of her car.

Amanda looked down at the set of keys in her hand, a frown flashing across her face before she returned to a neutral expression. “My husband, Paul, was killed when that greenhouse caught fire. It happened not long before you were born.”  
  
Her eyes flickered to the wheel, and she started the ignition.  
  
“I've just never had the heart to fix it up again.”

On that cheerful note, we pulled out of the drive and headed off towards the cinema..


	3. A Look Inside Greenhouse Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I step behind the curtain like in Wizard of Oz... except instead of an old man pretending to be a wizard, it's a witch pretending to be a middle aged woman. Okay to be fair, she was both.

I didn't like _Batman Returns._ It was dark and strange and that latex body suit that Catwoman wore looked dreadfully uncomfortable. Aunt Amanda told me if she had known about the Penguin's gory death scene at the end she wouldn't have taken me to see it at all. (Though actually I'd thought that was kind of wicked!) Nonetheless I returned to Amanda's house in a thoroughly ambivalent mood—not happy with the way things had gone and still somewhat out of my element, but elated to be spending the summer away from London.

The house was full of darkness when we returned. I crept back up the stairs to the guest room where I would sleep, all the while hearing the trilling of birds and chirping crickets outside. My room was just to the right once I reached the top of the staircase, with a bathroom across the hall, and I brushed my teeth and prepared to get some sleep.  
  
I tossed my sketchbook on the bed and kicked my sandals off, then lay down to read from the pocket testament my mother had given me for the trip. It included the Pslams and Proverbs and after a while my eyes glazed over until I came to this verse:

_The lip of truth shall be established for ever: but a lying tongue is but for a moment._

Something about it just clicked and the gears in my mind started turning. What truth was it talking about, I wondered? A nagging sense that I needed to admit something to myself wouldn't stop badgering me. I got the feeling again when I read a little farther and saw:

_Buy the truth, and sell it not; also wisdom, and instruction, and understanding._

“What truth, God?” I whispered. I read a bit more but just found passage after passage of Solomon pointing out the obvious. I wanted to know something that wasn't obvious—what Truth was I in denial about?

  
Frustrated, I flipped ahead and into the gospel of John, where my eyes immediately fell on:

_And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free._

I looked up at the ceiling. “Not funny.”   
  
Deciding I had enough to mull over, I put the testament on the nightstand by my bed and pulled open my sketch book and began drawing. I drew a girl in flowing robes with hair down to her waist. Her right hand was clenched tightly but held nothing. The space there looked empty, so I drew her a little stick to hold. And she didn't have a face at first, so I started sketching her a face. When I was finished, I squinted; it looked like me. For some reason this satisfied me, so I put the sketchbook down and got up and went to the bathroom.  
  
Before I made it to the toilet, though, I looked out the window in the bathroom where I could see the four greenhouses. There was an odd point of light down the hill there, and as my eyes focused I could tell it was a person—it was Aunt Amanda—heading towards the greenhouses. She had a torch or something. She walked up to Greenhouse Four—the burnt one—and as if specifically to pique my curiosity, she opened the door and went inside. It was still on my mind when I went to sleep.

 

*****  
**

 

When I got up the next morning, I must admit I spent a good ten minutes staring at my sketchbook. The image I'd drawn of me in the robes looked different somehow. The lines that made up her robes were lines that I did not remember drawing, and I could have sworn her hand had moved a few degrees.

Then again, it had been late...

  
I finally wrenched my eyes away from the sketchbook and headed down to the kitchen where Amanda had made some eggs and toast and poured me a pitcher full of a thick orange liquid.   
  
“What's this?”  
  
“Pumpkin juice,” Amanda said. “Try it, it's good.”

  
“Really?” I took a sip and it was.   
  
After breakfast, she took me out to her garden where she taught me how to use a hoe, then she took me inside Greenhouse One where she taught me how to care for her trees, some of them rare breeds imported from South America. She sold them to eccentric rich people who used exotic trees as status symbols.  
  
Greenhouse Two, I learned, contained her flowers, which were absolutely beautiful, with shades crimson and violet, azure and viridian, sometimes running together in the same flower, creating an array of colour that took me by surprise every time I went inside.   
  
The third greenhouse contained medicinal plants not native to that part of Britain, though Amanda said she didn't know how many of them had actual medicinal properties and how many of them were just junk science masquerading as folk remedies.

The next several days went on in this manner, with me getting up earlier than I normally would during the summer and then going to bed earlier too because I was just so tired, all the while hoeing and digging and sweating like Amanda had anticipated. It was work to be sure, but I had good company, and was enjoying myself, for the most part. Though, even with the unusual amount of exposure to the sun I was getting, I still managed not to tan. I did develop a brown dot near my right eye that might have been a freckle, though.

At night before I went to sleep I tried skimming my testament for any idea on what I was supposed to learn about the Truth, but nothing was clicking and I began to think that I had just imagined the entire 'truth' thing, or just happened to light on similar verses as a coincidence. That night I dreamed that me—the little me in the long robes—was standing over my bed laughing at the sleeping me and pointing her little stick. I didn't know what she was laughing about.

On the fifth evening, Amanda and I sat in the front room drinking hot cocoa and talking about the relative length of dragons and whether a dragon or the USS Enterprise would win in a fight. I was rooting for the dragon because even proton torpedoes are nothing compared to mithril scales and claws so sharp they make steel akin to tissue paper. But Amanda insisted that dragons weren't so tough, and if you set your phasers to stun, you could stupefy them long enough to attack their eyes, their only weak point. I told her that my dragon had prepared for such an occasion and bought a pair of goggles.

  
Amanda, I thought, was about to concede defeat to my infallible logic when a knock came at the door. “I've been expecting someone,” she said, tipping her sunglasses down from the top of her head to cover her eyes.  
  
“This late?” I asked. It was almost eight o'clock.  
  
“You know how my more eccentric customers can be,” Amanda said, getting up and answering the door.   
  
In walked a man in an incredibly ugly brown business suit with what I thought at first was a leather attache case. He had greasy black hair and a long hooked nose, an unpleasant glare that declared his superiority on his face.  
  
“Ms. Vanir,” the man said coolly, “I'm here to pick up my order.”  
  
“Ah yes,” she said. “Michelle, this is Mr. Snape. He's a.. er, Chemistry teacher at a school in town.”

  
“I suppose you're looking forward to the holiday,” I said, reminding myself to tease Rupert when I returned home about how late into the summer his school terms lasted.

“Quite,” Mr. Snape said curtly, his eyes never leaving Amanda. “My order, please.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Amanda said, a trace of nervousness in her voice. She glanced over at me. “Michelle, in Greenhouse Three there's a small box behind the door when you first go inside. Will you please get that and bring it to me?”  
  
I shrugged and pulled on my sneakers, then headed out and trudged down to the greenhouse. Inside I found the box like Amanda had said and hefted it back up to the house. But when I went inside, both Amanda and Mr. Snape were gone. I put the box down by the door and headed into the kitchen, looking around and finding nobody. I went back outside and shouted for them, but got no answer, so I headed back down to the greenhouse. It too was empty. I was exasperated and beginning to worry, and had taken two steps away from the door of the greenhouse when there was a prickling sensation at the back of my mind. Something had moved in my peripheral vision just as I'd turned my head away... but when I tried to turn and look I found unbidden fear making my neck turn slowly.

When I finally managed to wrench my head around, there was an enormous brown dog ten paces to my right, fangs dripping with saliva as it stalked closer, growling.

They tell you that you have a 'fight or flight' response, but they forget the third option: freeze. That's exactly what I did. I stood rigid, staring at the dog and too frightened to move as it stalked ever closer, sniffing at the air and licking its lips hungrily. It sniffed my hand, my fingers inches from its nose.

The paralyzing overload infecting my brain started to clear, and locomotion suddenly returned to my legs. I took off, darting around the far side of the greenhouse and down its length, the dog close behind barking repeatedly. I stumbled forward and fell face down, only managing to roll over onto my back because of the utter terror pounding through my heart. The dog snapped its jaws at me and I kicked it in the face, driving it back slightly. It seemed almost mush when my foot hit it, though, like the dog was made of sponge. I managed to crawl backwards until I ran into an old engine block in the yard that had collected years and years of rust. I used it to climb to my feet and took off running again, this time rounding Greenhouse Four and darting back across the far side towards the house.   
  
_There's no way I can make it up the hill on two legs faster than that dog can on four,_ my brain told me.

 _Shut up and try,_ responded my survival instinct.

I hadn't gone far when the dog pounced on me, rolling me forward again end over end, my neck and shoulders painfully rammed against the ground. But this time its momentum carried the mutt from hell so far forward that it managed not to keep me pinned, and I leapt to my feet and ran for the nearest door I could see.   
  
This happened to be the door to Greenhouse Four.   
  
Despite the decade of rust the door burst open easily and I crashed inside, running into a table and knocking over a bunch of plants.

 _...Plants?!_ demanded my brain?

 _Killer dog!_ my survival instinct retorted.

But my brain immediately overrode my survival instinct and went into full curiosity mode. Inside the greenhouse, there was no sign of the burn damage, the open hole in the roof, or the decade of disrepair. It was lavish. It was _huge._ Bigger on the inside than on the outside, I estimated. And covered in plants, many even more exotic-looking than those in Greenhouse One. Some of them moved to the sound of music emanating from an old record player in the backg while others seemed to be producing a rhythm of their own.

 _Killer dog?_ my survival instinct reminded.

I walked farther into the greenhouse, stepping over vines and finding a huge, gorgeous pink flower in the back. When I approached it turned and I heard an unfamiliar voice coming from that direction.

 _Oh, forget it,_ declared my survival instinct. _Just get eaten for all I care._

  
“Amanda!” said the voice through a thick French accent. “Back so soon, are oui?”

My eyes must have been as wide as saucers; the flower petals opened up. And there was someone inside it. A tiny little _person_ , hair as pink as the petals hanging down over her chest, rubbing her bare arms with water pooled inside the flower.  
  
“Oh my!” she said. “You are not Amanda. What is your name, leetle girl?”

  
I didn't answer. I just turned and ran. I ran as hard and as fast as I had ever run, even harder than I had ran when the dog was chasing me. I burst back out of the greenhouse, the dog immediately resuming its pursuit. I didn't care. I ran.  
  
The dog bowled me over again, this time managing to pin me down before I could get up.  
  
I probably wet myself. I don't really remember now. I just remember fangs. Fangs and Amanda's voice.

“ _RIDIKULUS!”_

The dog popped out of existence, replaced by a tiny kitten on a unicycle, hovering over me harmlessly. It mewed.   
  
I was shuddering as I climbed to my feet and saw Aunt Amanda, standing a few meters away holding a thin red wand, a scowl on her face and her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, her violet shawl hanging off of her in the same manner that the robes Albus Dumbledore had worn to my home the previous year had hung off _him_.  
  
“Michelle, are you okay?” she asked.  
  
“St...stay away from me!” I cried, turning and darting up the hill. As I hit the rear entrance a loud crack resounded in the kitchen and Amanda just appeared out of thin air in front of me.  
  
“Michelle!” she cried. “Stop, you're going to make yourself sick!”

I could sense the truth in her words. I could feel sweat pouring off of me, I could feel the gut-wrenching anxiety tearing in the pit of my stomach. But my need to _run,_ to _survive_ made me ignore the sudden manifestation of my teleporting aunt.

I ran through the house, up the stairs, and slammed the door to my guest room shut, locking it behind me with both the knob lock and the slide lock. I ran towards the window because I felt sick to my stomach, and opened it just in time to avoid making a mess of the old wooden floors. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and staggered backwards, collapsing into my bed, and I looked down and stared at the drawing I'd done the night I got there.  
  
The drawing of me, waist-length hair, witches robes, holding a magic wand.  
  
I collapsed on the bed and starting bawling, mumbling incoherently that God would save me or strike me dead or cause me to wake up and find this was all a nightmare. And I kept crying and heaving on my bed until it seemed like there were no more tears inside me.  
  
A gentle knock sounded against my door. I didn't answer it.  
  
Amanda's voice, sweet and reassuring called through. “Sweetie, I'm sorry. I was trying to ease you into it. I didn't mean for this to happen.”  
  
“Go away,” I said dully. I didn't want her to go away. I wanted the witch that used to be my Aunt to vanish and the real Aunt Amanda to return.  
  
But then all the strange memories slid together and the Truth I'd been missing hit me in the gut so hard I thought I'd throw up again.  
  
There was no real Aunt Amanda. There had always been Amanda the witch.  
  
The Truth was out.  
  
If _this_ was being set free, I wanted to go on being a prisoner.


	4. A Couple of Heart to Heart Talks

I woke up with a sticky, wet face from where I'd been crying, and found that my body was begging for food. Begging, but simultaneously warning me with pangs of nausea that I couldn't eat too much or I'd probably throw it all up. I'd heard of worrying myself sick, but this was the first time I'd ever actually done it; and with the urge to eat and the urge to vomit competing for dominance, I decided to lie there and ignore them both. It took a few minutes for my mind to fully start up, for me to convince myself that all the events of the previous night were real, that Aunt Amanda was a witch, and that no amount of wishing or praying would change things back the way they were.   
  
No, to the way they _never_ were. To the way I had just imagined they'd been. I sat up on the bed, resolving then and there that I would not leave the room all day. As if it wanted to mock me, my belly growled, telling me it would soon be time to use the bathroom. 

I also realized that my clothing was filthy from getting knocked over by the dog, that my hair was streaked with mud, and my legs were aching from having run like a maniac. Contrary to what you'd think, this did not weaken my resolve to stay in my room—it made me angry at some undefined Other and that anger strengthened my resolve to stay in my room.  
  
My mind flashed to the ancient telephone on the table beside my bed, and I crawled over to pick it up and call Mum and Dad to come and rescue me. But when I looked, the phone was gone—missing and unplugged from the wall. And in its place sat a small plate of fried fish, rice, and peas beside a mug of pumpkin juice.

I blinked. I had locked the door, I knew I had.

….Yeah, I locked the door trying to keep out someone who could teleport. It amazed me that she hadn't zapped my brain in the middle of the night. I briefly wondered if the food was poisoned, but my hunger, its flames fanned by the sudden sight of food, overrode everything else and had me scarfing down the cold food. Amazingly, I managed to keep it in my stomach, and felt ever-so-slightly better. As soon as I was done, I started digging through my luggage and found a pair of suitable clothes, changing into them and discarding the muddy ones in the corner of the room. Part of me knew deep down that I'd have to leave the room sooner or later, but instead I sat on the chest at the foot of my bed and began silently sulking, which I continued to do until I heard... whistling. Whistling from right beside me, in fact.  
  
I leaned over the bed and looked down at the floor, where my sketchbook lay, the image of myself as a witch face up—and cocking her head sideways whistling eyes shut tightly—sound coming out of the paper as if the little drawing had lungs. I made funny sound with my mouth, and apparently startled the little drawing, because she jumped with a start and looked up at me, wide-eyed.

  
“Oh, I thought you'd left the room!” the drawing said.  
  
“H-how are you—talking?” I stammered.  
  
“Good question!” The drawing beamed. “You must have been concentrating pretty hard to make a living sketch without meaning to.”

“Living sketch?” I bent over and picked up the sketch book. “That's not possible!”  
  
“Sure it is. What you've done is put a little bit of your heart and soul into me. I don't have much of a brain, but that's okay because I think with yours.”

“My... brain?”  
  
“Yup!” the drawing beamed. “By the way, since I'm all your introspective side, you can call me Copi.”  
  
“Copy?” I asked. “What's introspective?”  
  
“Yeah, with an I,” she said, not answering my second question. The little drawing pulled her wand out of her pocket and sat down, her robes spreading out across the imaginary ground line that I hadn't drawn. “Now can I ask you a question, Michelle?”

Still only vaguely processing what was happening, I stared at her and just nodded, the centre of my universe having shifted so many parsecs in the past twelve hours that I was just running with whatever weirdness came my way. I sat down and cradled the drawing in my lap.  
  
“Okay,” Copi said. “I want you to really think about this. Has Amanda ever been evil to you?”  
  
I frowned. I wanted to say yes, to say that she had lied to me for twelve years and invited me out on false pretenses, that she was a horrid wicked witch that took me to see movies and saved me from evil dogs and.... And that was why I slowly shook my head 'no'. That dog could have torn my throat out, but it didn't thanks to Amanda.

“She hasn't been, ever.”

“And you know your parents. You know how they are.” Copi flashed something halfway between a smile and a wince. “They grounded you for a week when they found out you'd been playing Wizards and Warriors with Rupert. Imagine how your Mum and Dad would react if they knew Amanda was a real witch. It's no wonder she kept it a secret, is it?”

“What about all those things the preacher said?” I asked, my eyes stinging, even though I was fighting the urge to cry again. “Doesn't that mean Amanda is bad?”

“I can't answer that,” Copi said. “Remember, I've got your brain. I don't know any more about the Bible than you do, I'm just trying to be objective. I know all about what they say about magic, but then I wouldn't be here without it. It's hard to be too down on the stuff that gives you life. So I don't know.”

I rocked back and forth for a moment, and then shook my head. “I can't,” I said. “I'm afraid. And I can't call Mum and Dad because Amanda took my phone. I can't look at her yet.”  
  
I tossed the sketch book down on the bed and flopped down on it belly-first, pantomiming crying without much in the way of actual tears or actual emotion. I wanted to cry, I wanted to feel the cold comfort that came with it, but instead I just felt.. flat. Uninterested. Unable to work up feeling. So I lay there.   
  
And Copi? She kept whistling. Continuously.  
  
I barked at her to stop; she did for a minute, then started again. So I grabbed a pencil and took the rubber to her head, erasing her mouth. She glared up at me angrily, then crossed her arms and sat down. Brooding.

It occurred to me that Copi was a very appropriate name for her.

*******

 must have fallen asleep, because when I next looked up my neck was aching something awful and it was dark outside my window. I had to pee so bad it felt like there were needles in my bladder, and I was getting hungry again. So I got out of bed and unlocked my door. And I went to the bathroom and washed my hands. And while I was in there, I turned the shower on and rinsed the mud out of my hair because it was getting on my nerves, and after I did that I felt better. Except that feeling better reminded me why I felt bad to begin with, and sent another pang of anxiety through my gut. I clenched my fist and purposed to go back to my room...  
  
And I stopped just outside the bathroom door, staring at the knob.   
  
I really can't explain what I did next. I guess I was just tired of lying around in my room all day. Or maybe I wanted to get it out of the way, because I knew I'd have to do it eventually. I turned right and walked towards the stairs. I walked down them, shocked to find myself in the front room. I heard vegetables being chopped in the kitchen, and I slowly walked in there, not bothering to be quiet. Amanda was standing over a bowl, mixing some off-white substance. To my surprise, the cutting of vegetables was being performed automatically by knives hovering in mid air. I guess she didn't have to do things the mundane way now that the secret was out. I gently pulled out a chair at the small table in the side of her kitchen and sat down. Amanda continued stirring for a moment, until she seemed satisfied, then poured the goo onto a a pan on the hob, making four circles.   


_Oh_ , I thought. _Pancakes._

Amanda picked up a spatula and her magic wand, and said a strange word while waving it. The spatula flew over and started tending the pancakes, while Amanda walked over and pulled a chair out at the table, then sat down. She folded her hands together and sat, not saying anything.  
  
After a moment of silence, I winced. “Amanda... I'm sorry.”  
  
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said. “I'm the one who screwed up. Mr. Snape insisted that we Apparate to Greenhouse Four, and then insisted on staying longer than I'd expected to examine my dittany. This wouldn't have happened if I didn't allow him to be so overbearing.”

“You.... you saved me from that dog, though,” I said, reaching out and putting my hand on hers. “Thanks.”

 

“It was a boggart, actually,” Amanda said with an ambivalent smile. “They're magical creatures that take the form of something you greatly fear. I didn't know you were afraid of dogs.”

I glanced to the side and felt kind of embarrassed. “Yeah. Well, just the ones bigger than me.” I stared at her for a moment, and then decided attack the proverbial elephant in the room.   
  
“So how long have you been a witch?” I asked, the word feeling wreched on my tongue. Yet, somewhere it had for me a sense of temptation... of power? Maybe. But maybe it was more like adventure.

“I've been certified since I graduated from Hogwarts, Class of 1979.” She frowned. “And I guess I might as well go ahead and get this out: the reason I invited you up here—even though I've wanted to for years and didn't because its so hard to hide the weirdness that goes on around homes of people in the wizarding world—is because Albus Dumbledore asked me to.”  
  
Fear started gnawing at my gut. “Does that mean you want me... to become one of you? To go to Hogwarts?”   
  
Amanda nodded. “Dumbledore hoped that I could convince you. You have a wonderful gift, Michelle, and you need to learn to use it. Especially because it can be horribly destructive if you don't learn how to control your magic.”  
  
I winced. _I have magic?_ I thought of Copi. _I have magic!_

“But how can I do something like that? How can you? You know what the Bible says about witches and sorcerers.” I paused. “Do you even believe in the Bible? Do you worship the devil or Zeus or—?”

“Sweetie,” she said, moving her hands from beneath mine and putting it on top, trying to comfort me. I realized that I'd gotten my own heart to start racing. “I'm not a pagan. I'm not worshiping the devil. I'm a Christian, just like you. I know what the Bible says, and I've always wondered about it. But trust me, Michelle: I wouldn't lead you into anything if I thought it would hurt you.”  
  
“But... how can you justify it?”  
  
“Well for one thing, I didn't grow up with people like Olivia and Don in my life. You know I love your parents to death, but they... they act like their church is the mouthpiece of God on earth. And what the Bible says about witchcraft was ages ago. That was the old Jewish law when people were so superstitious. Remember, sweetie, that Jesus changed everything. We live by the law of love now. And trust me when I say this: I don't know anyone who loves his neighbor like Albus Dumbledore. You won't find a better man among wizards or Muggles.”

“Muggles?” I arched an eyebrow.  
  
“It's what we call non-magical folk. There's... a great deal of ignorance about the mundane world in the Wizarding community. In some ways, wizards barely know more about Muggles than they do about wizards.”

I nodded, then looked down at my feet, my heart and head in a fierce debate, with me not even sure whose side I was on. Finally I looked Amanda in the eyes.   
  
“Okay,” I said. “I'll stay with you. I want to know more. Everything you can teach me. I don't want to decide whether or not I'm going to go to Hogwarts... until I'm sure it's the best thing for me to do.”  
  
Amanda smiled. “Michelle, you're wise beyond your years. You'll make a fantastic Ravenclaw yet.”

 _  
_ I didn't know what a Ravenclaw was, but I smiled, even with the emotions still battling inside me. I didn't know if I was doing the right thing or not, but I knew now what I wanted. I wanted to learn, to be one of the few who knew the cheat codes for the universe. Even if I could never use them, even if I was tempting hell itself. I had to learn.

Aunt Amanda and I had pancakes and pumpkin juice for supper, and I lay down that night with a sense of utmost ambivalence. But ambivalence was a step up, as far as I was concerned. Amanda told me I had until August 15th to make my decision. Less than a month, but, perhaps, enough time for me to figure everything out.  
  
The next morning, I apologized to Copi and drew her a new mouth; she still refused to talk to me for a week.


	5. A Choice Deliberated

Amanda decided she'd show me around Greenhouse Four now that I knew the truth. This, she told me, was her passion in life. Her husband Apollonius (or Paul as he was called by his friends) had not been a particularly good wizard, but was a skilled herbologist. Since Amanda was a Half-Blood, she maintained ties with the Muggle world and sold exotic plants for mundane money. Some of the plants in Greenhouse Four were mundane, but had magical uses, while others were infused with supernatural energy. Screechsnap and **Abyssinian shrivelfig** were her best sellers, and I was specifically told that the salinity of the solution in which 'gillyweed' grew had to be maintained or otherwise it would die. It was rather difficult to absorb, and I was certain that I would fail herbology if I were learning it.  
  
“So does Mr. Snape teach herbology at Hogwarts?”

Amanda shook her head. “Not herbology, potions. He comes by for potions ingredients that they aren't allowed to grow in the on-campus greenhouses.”

In the back of the Greenhouse, she showed me the big flower with a person growing inside, the little nymph with the French accent. The species was called ginger blossom, but the nymph herself was known as Giselle.  
  
“I apologize for startling you, leetle girl,” Giselle said, lowering her head. “I thought you were Amanda. That 'orrible meester Snape is so overbearing, and he insulted Amanda's deetanny. I thought she had returned to veent her frustration.”

I shrugged uncomfortably, still unnerved by the tiny creature in front of me. “Um, no problem, I guess,” I said.  
  
Amanda put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing by running inside here,” she said. “There are wards set up around the greenhouses that will keep magical creatures away.”

  
We turned and walked back towards the exit, and I took the opportunity to pet the feel-good cactus one last time before we left.

“Why does it still look burned down on the outside?” I asked a we stepped out into the humid July morning. “What happened here?”  
  
Amanda frowned. “Twleve years ago, when Paul was killed, I was devastated. But I didn't want to give up on his—on _our_ dream. Some Wizarding friends of ours helped me put the place back together, and someone suggested that we set up an illusion to make it look as though it were still burnt out to keep curious Muggles from going inside.”

I noticed she never said what exactly had caused the fire, and I began to suspect the worst.

*******

“You're underaged,” she said. “So I can't allow you to use any magic in my home. We could probably get away with it, but I don't want to even risk trouble. Especially since you've not decided yet. You haven't decided, have you?”  
  
I shook my head. “Honestly, I wouldn’t do use that wand even if you offered,” I said, eyeing the wand that sat on the living room table. “I'm still terrified, Amanda. Every instinct I've been programmed with—”

Amanda chuckled. “Listen to yourself. 'Programmed', sweetie? You're talking as if you're a computer.”

“You're expecting me to think for myself? I thought that was something adults do.”  
  
Amanda cocked her head sideways as if considering her reply. “Actually,” she said, “Most adults don't. But I want you to, because that's so important to succeeding—both in life and in magic, if you choose to learn it. Now…”  
  
She pulled a small brown box from beside her on the settee and placed in the table, and opened it. It was a chess board, I realized, with thirty two crystal pieces of black and white sitting in their proper starting positions. Rupert had taught me the basics of chess during the week I was forbidden from playing his video games, so I wasn't panicking. But I was rather curious as to what this had to do with wizarding or critical thinking.  
  
“We're going to play wizard's chess,” she said.  
  
I arched an eyebrow. “What's the difference from normal chess?”  
  
Amanda looked down at the chess board. “King's pawn to d4,” she said.  
  
I stared with my mouth agape as the crystal chess piece moved itself, stopping on the specified position.  
  
“I can't play this!” I said. “I can't use magic. You just said that I couldn’t.”

Amanda motioned for me to sit down on the opposite side of the chess board. “You're not, Michelle. The pieces are enchanted. They respond to your voice commands, but you won't be using any magic yourself.”

“You’re rationalizing!” I said, hoping I was using the word correctly. “How is this any different than using a Ouija board?”

“Well for one thing,” Amanda said with a scowl, “Ouija boards don’t actually work. Some legitimately enchanted versions are sold in joke shops that give insulting or crude answers, but you’re not going to get any legitimate divination from them.”

“What about evil spirits?” I asked.

“Do you see any evil spirits?”  
  
Now it was my turn to scowl. “Amanda, they’re spirits, how could I see them?”  
  
“Michelle, you have magic in you. That means you can see and hear ghosts and spirits that Muggles can’t, even without any training. If something evil were trying to deceive you, you’d be able to see it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?” I slumped lower and stared at the chess board, as all sorts of thoughts ran through my mind. If I could see evil spirits—and I hadn’t ever seen any to my knowledge, not when Amanda did magic and not now in front of the chess board—then perhaps they weren’t as numerous and active as the preacher at my church had suggested in his sermons.  
I looked at the board, studying the crystal pieces until my eyes settled on a white knight, his sword raised one hand and a cross-bearing shield in the other.  
  
“Knight to c6,” I said softly.

*******

I had been trying to wrap my brain around _Hogwarts: A History_ , but that book was thick and wordy, didn't make much sense, and—I feared—full of witchcraft propaganda to deceive innocent kids like me into participating in evil. She'd also given me a copy of _Quidditch Throughout the Ages_. That book fascinated me—flying around on brooms, cheering crowds. It was like a bizarre video game fantasy. I looked through the list of racing brooms in the back, and frowned when I didn't see the Roc 360 on the list.  
  
But then it occurred to me to flip forward; the front of the book had the copyright date several years earlier. Maybe my broom was a newer model! I darted down the stairs and slipped my shoes on, then grabbed the Roc 360 and ran outside to where Aunt Amanda was running a gardening hose down to the greenhouses.  
  
“Amanda, can my broom fly?” I stared at her with big imploring eyes, ignoring the pangs of guilt I felt for how badly I wanted to use a magical item. I forced my reservations down because flying would be _spectacular._

“Sure can, sweetie,” she said, grunting, giving the hose a good tug and finally getting it far enough to hook up to the existing water line. She screwed the two ends together and then flicked her magic wand at the outdoor spigot, causing the water to turn on.

“How... how does it work?” I asked. “I don't have to use magic, do I? The _Quidditch_ book said the broom itself is what's enchanted.”

Amanda nodded. “I don't suppose teaching you a little about broom flying will do any harm. You're already a year behind most Hogwarts students.”  
  
“I've not decided to go, you know,” I said, perhaps too angrily.

“I didn't say you had,” said Amanda, frowning. She then smiled slightly, forcing herself to be more cheerful than she felt for my sake. “Now, first, drop the broom on the ground parallel to the way you're facing.”  
  
I did so, the broom falling into the grass in the most unspectacular manner.

“Now hold out your hand and say the word _up._ ”

Nervously I stepped around the broom and extended my right hand. “Uh... up!” I said forcefully. Nothing happened.  
  
“Up!” I said again, with less hesitation. “Up! Up.”

Nothing happened a second time.

“You're anxious, Michelle,” Amanda said. She flicked her wand again and the spigot turned off. “Don't think so hard about it. Calm your mind and focus on what you're doing. The charms only work if you want them too, and you're afraid of what it means if they do.”  
  
“I have a right to be,” I said. I didn't know where _that_ egalitarian observation came from, but I liked the way it sounded at the time. With the upbringing I'd had, the very idea of magic was verboten. _Super Mario Brothers_ was about as much fantasy as my parents would allow.

“You can exercise your rights, or you can learn to fly a broom,” Amanda said, grinning. “Your choice, dear.”

I swallowed hard and tried to purge the anxiety from my gut. I felt my heartbeat slow slightly, and I took a deep breath. I looked down at the broom and envisioned it responding, and exhaled.  
  
“Up.” I said. The broom moved in an circular arc at 1000 Miles Per Hour—unfortunately the Earth was also moving along this arc, so the Roc 360 did not come any nearer to my hand. I stared, amazed that I had failed again. Amazed and kind of annoyed.

 _Darn it!_ I thought. “UP!”

Suddenly the broom leapt off the ground and smacked into my palm, causing it to sting. My hand closed reflexively, but I was too shocked to do anything but stare.

“Good job,” Amanda said. “Sit down.”

I straddled the broom and started to sit down, when suddenly a strange—pocket of air, force, seemed to form below me. I was hovering several inches above the broom handle, but supported as though I was sitting on the most comfortable bicycle seat ever. I goggled and glanced at Amanda.  
  
She read the question in my face and grinned. “It's a cushioning charm. You'd get saddle sore if you sat on the broom handle itself. Now, kick off the ground. Keep one hand on the broomstick.”

I kicked, and began hovering a few feet into the air, getting very scared very suddenly. My flight path was wobbly and I kept fearing that I would fall off. I leaned forward and low, clutching the broomstick tightly with both hands. My flight path steadied, and I felt my heart began to slow. Amanda walked around—I was just about three meters off the ground by this point—and pulled down her sunglasses. “Okay, good. You press left or right on the stick to steer. Put forward pressure on the handle to speed up and reverse pressure to break. Tilt the stick up and down to raise and dive.”

I tried to get these directions down in my head, fumbled around for half an hour, and finally got to where I could maintain a steady flight-path as long as I had both hands on the broom. It was exhilarating—to be able to fly about at will, first really slow and gradually faster. The wind rushing through my hair, the smell of the country air afflicting my nostrils with their copious allergens. I only came down when the adrenaline rush turned into an adrenaline crash.

I loved it. But I didn't think I'd ever be able to play Quidditch, because every time I took one hand off, my flight path went crazy again and I got afraid I'd fall off.

But then, what was I saying? I slumped against a wall in Amanda's house, hugging a knee against my chest. I couldn't play Quidditch because I couldn't go off to a school for witches and participate in their dark rituals and worship the devil and do all sorts of heinous abominations before God. I felt my eyes start to water, and that made me angry. Why was this such a conflict for me? This decision should have been a no-brainer. Hogwarts was magic. Magic was evil. I stay away from evil.

And then the questions flooded in. Was it really evil? Did I really want to stay away from it, even if it was? What did that mean about me?  
  
Was I... a witch?

“Not yet, I'm not,” I muttered to myself, getting up. I stomped into the kitchen and poured myself some pumpkin juice. Flying was thirsty work.

*******

That night we sat by the fireplace in Amanda's front room; Amanda read from a book ( _Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus_ , which despite its title was actually a Muggle book); I sat sketching the outline of a valiant knight, my paper illuminated by an electric lamp that sat on the table beside me. I kept having to be very careful any time I moved my elbow because the arm chair was so small that my limbs practically spilled out of it and smacked into the lamp.

Just as I was sketching the design on the knight's shield, I knocked the lamp off the table and its base shattered against the hard wood floor. I winced and reached for the cord, unplugging it before the still-lit bulb began burning through the lamp shade.  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered, looking up at Amanda warily.

She pulled out her wand and aimed it at the broken lamp. “ _Reparo_!” she chanted. Instantly the lamp's various pieces floated back together. I blinked at it for a few seconds, then grabbed it and sat it back down on the table, shivering.

“Amanda,” I said quietly, looking up at her. She put her book aside, marking her page with her wand. “Can I ask you something?”  
  
“What, dear?”  
  
“Are there... _bad_ wizards? Wizards that are considered evil even by people in the magical world?”

Amanda's lips twisted down into a frown, and she nodded solemnly. “Oh yes,” she said. “There have been good and bad wizards and witches as long as there have been wizards and witches. Just as there have always been good people and bad people.”

“But bad people with magic,” I said. “That means... that means that people could get killed.”

My aunt nodded again. “That's one reason magic is so heavily regulated. And why we train even Muggle-born students at Hogwarts. Because there _are_ bad wizards out there, and you have to know how to use magic properly—and how to protect yourself.”

  
We sat in silence for a few minutes before I opened my mouth again. “Your husband. My uncle Paul—he was killed by a bad wizard, wasn't he?”

Amanda nodded gravely.

“I thought so,” I said softly. “I'm so sorry, Amanda.”

“Thank you,” she said, with an unusually soft smile. Then she looked down. “The man who killed Apollonius—his name was Amycus Carrow, but he was just a soldier from a group of bad wizards. They called themselves the Death Eaters.”

And suddenly I realized that all this was so much bigger than whether or not flicking a wand and saying magic words was immoral.

*******

The next morning Copi and I had an argument about whether or not Rupert was cute. I stomped off, angry that I couldn't even convince a copy of myself to accept my position, and left my room. Amanda intercepted me at the top of the stairs and led me over towards her room. In front of the door, we stopped and she pulled down the panel to the attic, a small wooden ladder the colour of ocean water dropping from the hole.  
  
“What's this all about?”

  
“I want to show you something,” Amanda said. “A couple days ago I wrote to Dumbledore that you still hadn't decided.”  
  
“Why does he get to know these things?” I was proud of how impetuous I had made my voice.

  
“Because he's worried about you. He wrote me back with some advice. I want to show you something.”

We climbed up the latter into a dusty attic full of trinkets. Some of the trinkets moved about, and there were boxes and boxes of moving-photographs—pictures that looked like short video clips. I stared at them, at first thinking it was a small video screen before realizing that they were magic photos. Amanda walked over to a corner where a green tarp with considerably less dust on it than the rest of the objects in the attic covered something tall and thin.  
  
“Before I show you this,” Amanda said. “A word of caution. This used to be kept in an unused class room at Hogwarts until a student there found it. He had become... addicted to looking into it, because it shows you the thing your heart desires the most. Dumbledore had it moved out here because nobody in their right mind would look for a magical artifact in Beverly.”  
  
I gave a nervous laugh. What the devil was she talking about?

Then Amanda pulled the tarp off and before me stood a mirror, embossed in gold. Some letters that didn't make words lined the outside of the glass, but my eyes quickly flicked from them into the image in the mirror. Because it wasn't the me I saw when I looked into any normal mirror. It was me, my hair halfway down my back, draped in long black robes with the Hogwarts crest on my lapel. A wand in my hand, and a small golden cross hanging from my neck.  
  
I took a step back, alarmed, and then turned. I shouted something I don't even remember now and jumped through the hole, grabbing onto the floor of the attic to slow my fall, and then letting go and falling the other six feet to the floor. My feet hurt, but I staggered forward any way, then slid into the corner between my room and the bathroom.  
  
Breathing heavily, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and started to calm myself. There was a loud crack and Amanda appeared in front of me, and knelt down.  
  
“Michelle! Michelle, sweetie, are you okay?!” She felt my forehead and I realized I'd started sweating. “What did you see, honey?”  
  
“I... saw... me...” I gasped out slowly. “I... want to go to Hogwarts.”  
  
Amanda stared at me for a moment. I think it took her a bit to comprehend what I was too terrified to say.  
  
“Honey, Michelle. Please, calm down.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “Wanting something is not a sin. You've done nothing wrong. I should have given you more warning. I'm the one who screwed up.”

  
“You...?” I asked, suddenly feeling cold despite being drenched, despite my racing heart. “You didn't do anything wrong. I just.. I just don't want... to want to. But I do.”

  
“You realize,” she said, “That if you go there and decide that it's not for you, you can leave, right? This isn't an irrevocable commitment. You always have a choice.”

  
I stared up at her, and through all her strangeness, and worry, I saw something in Amanda's eyes, like a violet glow that originated in her heart. It was compassion, and I could feel it was real. I'd seen the same thing in my mom's eyes when I was sick, in Deacon Wellington's eyes when I'd went forward to confess Jesus. In my father's eyes—along with regret—any time he had to discipline me.  
  
And I sobbed, once, twice, and then stopped.  
  
“I'm going to Hogwarts,” I said. “I've made my choice.”


	6. A Most Unusual Back To School List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My decision has consequences.

The middle of August was fast approaching and I found myself growing anxious about the decision. I'd like to say I wasn't tempted to change my mind, but the truth is, I was. I was constantly second guessing myself. And though it got easier as the days passed, I never quite felt comfortable about my choice. (This is a different thing than lacking confidence in it, you see. I was confident that any other decision would have made me absolutely miserable. It's something like deciding between a risky spinal surgery or dealing with back pain the rest of your life.)

On the morning of the thirteenth, I was sitting in my room talking with Copi when Amanda knocked at the door and looked in. I looked at her over my shoulder.  
  
“Am I interrupting anything?”

  
“Not at all!” Copi said. My head snapped around and shot Copi a nasty look.   
  
“Good, good,” Amanda said. When she stepped all the way in the room, I saw she was wearing the same maroon witch's robes that she had been wearing the day I was assaulted by the boggart-dog. “We're going on a shopping trip. I've got your updated list of items for school.”

“Shopping?” I paled. “As in wizard-shopping?”

“Yup. Dress yourself and meet me in the front room. I'm gonna teach you how to Floo.”

  
“Verbing,” Copi said, “Weirds language.”

 

*****  
**

In front of the flickering fireplace, Amanda stood waiting for me with a massive pointy hat on her head, the same maroon shade as her robes. I got to the bottom of the stairs before I saw that she had a shoulder bag as well as a small green sack. She motioned for me to come over, and I did so; as soon as I felt the heat of the fireplace, the weirdness of the fact that it was lit in the dead of summer hit me.   
  
“Why did you start a fire?”  
  
“We're traveling via Floo. Here now,” she said, handing me the green sack. “Take a handful of the powder and throw it into the fireplace. Say 'Diagon Alley' and step inside.”

“ _Diagonally_?” I mimicked.

The corner of Amanda's mouth cocked into a smile. “Diagon. Alley,” she said slowly. “Say it carefully or you'll end up in the wrong place.”  
  
“Are you telling me that I can use a fireplace to teleport?”  
  
“You say that like it's strange,” Amanda said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder bag. “Just toss it in there and say it. The fire will flare up and you have to step into it as it does.”  
  
I gave her a withering glare and took a handful of the Floo...stuff. And tossed it into the fireplace. “Diagon Alley!” I shouted. The fire exploded outward from the fireplace and I stepped...

  
Backwards. “Eeep!” I backed into the coffee table and it tripped me up, though I managed to twist in mid air so that I didn't land on it. Instead I just slammed into the floor.

Amanda helped me up. I noticed she had a piece of parchment clutched in one hand.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
I blinked. “...I think so. I didn't expect a ruddy explosion.”

“Don't worry,” she said. “It won't burn you.”  
  
I gulped, and took another step forward. I repeated the process, this time closing my eyes as the fire consumed me. Suddenly I was hurdling through a space between spaces, tumbling end over end until another fireplace appeared in front of me and spat me out. I rolled to a stop in the middle of a small High Street where dozens of witches and wizards bustled about in varying degrees of non-muggle dress. I shot to my feet and began looking around—directly across from me was a large building labeled GRINGOTTS BANK and a few storefronts down I saw what looked like a pet shop, with a huge boa constrictor in an aquarium out in front.

  
I heard a burning flare behind me and turned to see Amanda emerging from a green flame in one of several large fireplaces built into the side of an old brick shop.

“That was... intense,” I muttered, and found myself clinging to Amanda's side despite the protests of my dignity and pride.

“This is Diagon Alley,” Amanda sad, her hand resting on my shoulder. She pushed forward slightly as if to nudge me to let go, and I did so. Though, I stayed close to her. “It's the biggest commercial hub for witches and wizards in the city.”

“It's incredible,” I said, walking over to a street vendor selling what appeared to be fireworks.   
  
“Those are five knuts a box,” the vendor drawled. “Best price in all London.”  
  
“Knuts?” I asked, still trying to process the fact that we were suddenly in London.

“Don't know what knuts are, oh?” the witch laughed. “Heh, Muggle-borns.”

I frowned, and Amanda put her hand on my shoulder and led me away.   
  
“Listen, sweetie, we need to focus on your school list.” Amanda unfolded the parchment she'd been clutching earlier. “Okay, you need a few sets of robes. We'll grab those at the hand-me-down shop because I refuse to pay Madame Malkin's prices.”  
  
“What is a knut?” I said as she led me down the street to a small shop where a bored-looking young wizard was ringing up some pointy hats for another family, this one seemingly comprised of a witch and a bewildered Muggle father.

“It's a type of coin,” she said. “Bronze. Twenty-nine of them make a Sickle. Seventeen Sickles make a Galleon. And if you're converting to Muggle money, a Galleon is about 5 pounds.”

“That's a bloody bizarre exchange rate,” I murmured, and then covered my mouth when I realized what I'd said. “Sorry.”  
  
“Watch your language,” Amanda said absently. “Alright, I think the girls fitting room is empty. Pick a few that you think fit you.”

*******

We emerged from the shop half an hour later with three robes, none of which matched, a winter cloak that was silver and green (this fact perturbed Aunt Amanda for some reason) and a tall pointy hat that sat on my head. Total damage: thirty sickles.   
  
“We're going to have to get better at bargain hunting or I'm gonna need to make a trip to the bank,” Amanda said with a sigh. She'd somehow managed to stuff all my clothes into her shoulder bag, though I kept the hat and pulled it down on my head.

Next we went to the book store, Flourish and Blott's, where we further loaded down the bag to impossible levels. “It's enchanted,” she explained, as we stuffed a copy of something called _Voyages With Vampires_ into it and nearly kicked over a cardboard cut-out of someone named Gilderoy Lockhart, who would apparently be at the store signing books this weekend. Total damage: seven galleons, and that was with all but one of them second-hand. I mentally did some math and winced. I owed Amanda a big dinner. Luckily I hadn't spent much of the Muggle money my parents had sent with me.

A few more stops and we grabbed a telescope and a cauldron. I tried to surprise Amanda by buying us both a large ice cream while she was haggling over some seeds, but when I tried to pay with a five-pound note the elderly lady at the ice cream shop looked at me with a perplexed frown and started using an abacus to convert it to Wizarding money. As she handed me my change, Amanda stepped up behind me.   
  
“Evening, Athena,” Amanda said. “She's with me. My niece, Michelle.”  
  
“Oh, good afternoon, Amanda,” the woman said. “Florean's not here. He's off at some ice-cream convention in Switzerland. So you got yourself a niece? She goin' to Hogwarts?”

Amanda's voiced was forcibly polite. “Of course. Wouldn't be in Diagon otherwise.”

“Ah, yes yes. Well, have a nice day.”

When we left in a hurry, I handed Amanda the ice cream I'd bought for her and regarded her curiously. “What was _that_ about?”

“Athena Fortescue,” Amanda said. “Far from the kind soul her son turned out to be. Old fashioned. She doesn't think Muggles should be allowed in Diagon Alley.”

“Well—!” I began, offended. “I'm _not_ a Muggle.” My heart started racing as my apprehensions about my magical abilities came to the surface. No, I wasn't a Muggle, but I was dreading the likelihood that I'd be cursed to live as one because of my parents— _my_ faith. And simultaneously, hoping for unequivocal evidence that the Wizarding World was evil—because that at least would take the choice out of my hands and let me sleep easy at night.

“No, you're not a Muggle,” Amanda responded. “But you're a Muggleborn, and when you paid with Muggle money you caused her to assume that you'd brought your Muggle parents in with you. And, sweetie, you've done nothing wrong. She's the one who has the problem. Part of the trouble with living to 130 years old—eventually even magic can't help you keep up with the times.”  
  
“One-hundred and thirty?” I parroted, amazed. I began to wonder what dark rituals she used to extend her life so long, and began regarding my ice cream as though it had been bought with blood money.  
  
It still tasted delicious.

*******

The last stop on our list was a small place called Ollivander's. The sign above the door had a simple painting of a wand resting on a cushion, and I realized that this was it—I was about to get the primary instrument of magic. I had no idea what to expect. I wondered if I should turn back now for the safety of my soul. I might have, except Amanda nudged me forward and I was too much of a coward to run away in fear. I stepped into the dimly lit shop, noticing the walls were lined with shelves of small boxes that I assumed contained the various wands. There was a tall, thin main with frazzled white hair and a pleasant smile behind the counter.  
  
“Ah, Mrs. Vanir!” he said. “I trust you're not here due to any dissatisfaction with your product?”

“Absolutely not,” Amanda said with a smile. “Thirty-one years and counting without missing a spell. I'm here because my niece here needs her first wand, and—”

Just then, the door swung open behind us, ringing the bell above the threshold. In strolled a young girl, perhaps a bit younger than me, in an elaborate violet dress. She moved with a strange grace that was somehow both fluid and stiff, her back's stiff posture at odds with the drifting gait she used to carry herself. She was followed by a man and a woman in elegant white robes, both of whom held their noses aloft.  
  
The girl blew past Amanda and practically ran me over as she approached Mr. Ollivander. I stepped aside and arched an eyebrow. She was shorter than me, with reddish-brown hair tied up behind her head and big, intense eyes.

“Mr. Ollivander!” the girl said in a voice that was cheerful... and strangely commanding. “I'm here to be fitted for my wand.”

Ollivander was taken aback. For my part, I simply stared, fascinated by the young girl's poise, trying not to be too annoyed that she'd barged right past me.

“Ah,” he said, tossing me an apologetic glance, and then reaching for a nearby box. “Yes, Ms. Aulin. Let's start you with this one,” he said. He grabbed a small box from his shelf and handed it to the girl.

  
“I prefer Sypha,” the girl said pleasantly, again with that strange hint of command in her voice. She took the wand and waved it around, but nothing happened.  
  
“No, no, I don't think this is right,” she said.

“Yes, we'll try something else. Funny how the rest of your family has used oak wands, though. Hm, perhaps this one.” Ollivander pulled another wand off the shelf. “This one is a fine little number. Ten inch vinewood with a unicorn's hair core.”

Sypha Aulin swished it in the air, again producing no visible results.

“Ah...” Ollivander shot me and Amanda another apologetic look and grabbed a third box. “This one, perhaps? It's also vinewood, with a Pegasus feather core.”  
  
Sypha Aulin took it and waved it through the air, and suddenly sparks began flickering forth from its tip and filling the air with little particles of light. I stared at them because they were pretty and scolded myself for wanting to make my own.

“Very well!” Ollivander said. He named a price of several dozen galleons and I politely turned away and stared at the opposite wall as the girl's parents made the transaction. I wasn't typically envious of the wealthy—my family wasn't exactly poor itself. But something about being an outsider in a world where money was made up of all sorts of literal gold, silver, and knuts made me wish I could wash my hands of the whole wizarding economy. Feeling... out of place was unusual for me. Or at least, it had been before Albus Dumbledore showed up on my doorstep.

The Aulin family left. It was my turn.  
  
“I'm dreadfully sorry,” Ollivander said, looking me up and down and then grabbing a box off the shelf. “You know how some of the... old family's can get.”

I was beginning to see a pattern here and I didn't particularly like it.

Ollivander handed me the wand. “I think this one should suit you just fine.”  
  
I picked it up and immediately felt a strange buzzing in my head—one I'd felt before, occasionally, when I was intensely emotional. When strange things began to happen around me. The wand looked as though it was about 25 centimeters long and was constructed of a tough polished wood.  
  
“Ten inch oak,” Ollivander confirmed. “Relatively rare core there—shamrock. Usually only made in Ireland, but I wanted to try something different. Hasn't worked for a blasted soul so far, but I got a good feeling about you.”  
  
My heart pounded in my chest so heard I wondered if someone was playing thumping music next door. I slowly extended my hand, forcing past the twisting knot in my gut, and I waved the wand through the air; a green stream of light danced from the end like the trail of smoke from a cigarette and I felt the buzzing in my head intensify.

  
_Magic_.

 

*******

As August came to a close, I was growing both more resolved and more apprehensive. I did not question or second guess my decision to go to Hogwarts. More than anything, I had to learn, to know whether or not this power inside me was evil or if it was something I could embrace. I couln't back out now, especially after buying a wand and letting my aunt spend all that money on me. Apprehension came in the downtime, when I wasn't reminding myself of the reasons I had to go—the fear of the unknown, a feeling that going to any new school would produce magnified a thousand fold because of the unequivocal condemnation of witchcraft in the pages of the Bible. The Bible itself became an artifact of familiarity to me, as Amanda had bought me a beautiful study Bible with my name embroidered on the front cover in silver thread: _Michelle Faith Coplin_.

I sat cradling my sketch pad against my knees in the front seat of Amanda's car as we pulled up and parked parallel in front of my house. It was time to tell my parents about my decision, and my knees felt week.  
  
“Amanda,” I said reaching for the handle of her car door. “I have a question.”  
  
“Yes dear?”  
  
“Does my mum know? That you're... that you went to Hogwarts?”

Amanda frowned deeply and exhaled through her nose, saying nothing for a moment. She took another deep breath, and then looked at me.

“I was sixteen years old when I met your mother. She was ten. It was about a year after my mother had passed, and my father was moving on with his life. He began dating your grandma Lorraine while I was away at school. And quite frankly, I was... well, a brat at the time. I didn't like the fact that my father was dating a Muggle woman.”  
  
“But Grandpa is a Muggle,” I said.  
  
“Yes. At the time, I took it as an insult, though. I thought he'd been ashamed of my mum and her magic. And by extension, of me and mine.” Amanda took another breath. “And because of that, I took my frustration out on your mother. One day she'd said or done something that particularly upset me, and I threatened her. I told her I was a witch, and that I'd gone to witch's school. I said I'd put a hex on her if she didn't behave.”

I stared at her wide-eyed. Amanda? Losing her temper? Whoa.

“Like I said. Brat.” Amanda smiled. “But that was a long time ago. I never mentioned it again, and she never brought it up. As far as I know, she's assumed I was joking all these years—”

“But she remembers,” I said. “I can see it in the way she looks at you. And I bet getting that letter last year only brought it all back up in her head.”

I opened the car door and got out, tossing my sketch pad on the seat (Copi let out an oof when it landed) and turned to the door. I left my belongings in Amanda's car and slowly walked up and knocked at the door. A few seconds later, my mum opened it up and welcomed me in, embracing me in a hug that might have popped my spine if I'd not spent all summer working out.  
  
“Look how much you've grown!” my dad said as Mum led me into the dining room. The table was already set and I could smell dinner in the kitchen. “You've got a bit of a tan, too. I knew getting out of the city would do the girl some good, Olivia. How was it?”  
  
Mum arched an eyebrow. “Michelle, where are your bags?”

“I, er, left them in the car,” I said nervously. “I've got something to tell you.”  
  
“Tell us?” Mum glanced at Dad. “Oh dear, Michelle. You've not started getting those... _monthly visits_ have you?”

“No!” I shouted, embarrassed that she mentioned **that** right in front of dad. Then I slumped my shoulders. “Well, yes, but that's _not_ what I need to tell you. That's nothing compared to what I need to tell you.”

Now both my parents looked worried, glancing at each other confused.

“I've decided,” I said, my heart starting to race yet again. “I've decided that I'm going to Hogwarts.”

My mum's face turned into a mask of incredulity and perplexity; my dad just stared at me with a dull look of shock. Worse, Mum's mouth quickly curled up in disgust.  
  
“Michelle Coplin,” she said sternly. “Don't you dare even joke about such a ridiculous—”

  
“I'm not joking!” I said, stomping my foot for emphasis. “I'm serious. I've talked it over with Amanda and I want to go. I _have_ to go. I can't stand knowing there's an entire world out there that I could learn about and not being a part of it. And if it turns out that it's evil, I'll leave it for good!”

The change was explosive; Dad continued to stare at me shocked, muttering and shaking his head. But Mum... Mum was on the war path. She shouted my name again and grabbed me by the arm before I could react.  
  
“What do you think you're talking about, Michelle?” she barked, her eyes forming tears. I didn't know if they were sad tears or if they were made of pure anger. “The works of righteousness have no fellowship with the works of darkness. If you mention another word about this—who put this idea in your head? Amanda? Was it your aunt?”  
  
“I chose to go on my own!” I spat, trying to jerk away. “Amanda didn't make me do anything. Mum, I'm not going to worship the devil. I just want to know—”

“It's out of the question,” my father said, showing an uncharacteristic bit of firmness. He stood by Mum and tried to pull her shoulder back. “Michelle, don't you understand, we're trying to protect you. Even if it weren't a school full of devil-worshipers, they might be into trafficking children or God knows what else.”

“To think,” Mum said. “My daughter caught up in this.” Her tears were now definitely sad. She let go of me, finally, and I rubbed my aching arm while she walked over to the sink and grabbed a kitchen towel, crying into it.

My dad knelt in front of me so that his head was level with mine.  
  
“Michelle, dear, we love you, but you're being absolutely mad. You could get hurt, or killed!”

I tried to choke back a sob. I wanted to do what my dad said, but then I'd never get to the bottom of it all. I'd never learn to be a witch or know if magic really was evil.

“It never hurt me,” came the voice of Amanda. I turned behind me to see her standing in the door way. “Don, Olivia, please. Your daughter has a gift, an incredible gift. Let her learn to use it.”

“You!” my mother snarled—yes, snarled. I'd never heard her use that tone of voice before, and it terrified me. “You did this to my little girl! I hope you burn in hell!”

The next thing I knew Mum let out a horrible shriek and ran towards us, flinging a rolling pin towards Amanda with enough speed that I heard the wind. I closed my eyes and recoiled, burying my face in Dad's shoulder to cry, even as he screamed Mum's name. And then...  
  
“Expelliarmus!”

There was a bright flash and I looked up to see the rolling pin sail out of Mum's hand and smash into the wall. I looked up, sobbing and panting wordlessly as both Mum and Dad stared at Amanda, who now had her wand extended, glaring at my parents from behind sunglasses.

“OLIVIA COPLIN!” Amanda thundered, lowering her wand. “You're _better_ than this, dammit! I have done nothing to harm your daughter. I only want what's best for her. If you can't see past that fanatic imbecil you call a preacher and see what you're doing to your daughter, then you can be _damn_ sure I'm not going to leave her here this term for a volley of emotional abuse.”

Mum fired back, quoting Leviticus word-for-word, condemning the practice of witchcraft, while my dad stood up and stuck a finger in Amanda's face and demanded that she get her devil-magic out of his house. I backed away from both of them, crouching in the corner and covering my ears and trying to drown out there infernal shouting. And I felt the buzzing, the slow evervescent build-up of magic in the back of my head. And the shouts of my parents and my aunt pounded on the well of energy until it was a throbbing, aching pressure in my skull that demanded release.  
  
“ ** _ENOUGH!_** ” I shouted and the buzzing stopped—as the explosions started. The ceramic vase of flowers in the hall, the empty glasses on the kitchen table, and the lights in the fixture above our heads, all bursting in a simultaneous shower of sparks and debris that dimmed the room and silenced the argument. My chest felt hollow and I felt drained, as though I'd just come down from an adrenaline high again.

“You see that?” Amanda said, pointing to the shattered vase. “The spark is in her. It's not evil. It's not satanic. It simply _is_. And you can either let her learn to control it, or you can wait till another outburst like that _hurts_ somebody and watch them take your daughter away to a padded cell. She broke vases and lights this time. Next time it might be bones.”  
  
“You...” Mum whispered. “You're really a witch. You've led my daughter astray, Amanda. How could you do that? My little baby...”

My father, shivering, looking pale and sick, took a seat at the table, ignoring the chunks of glass on the chair.   
  
“Take her, then,” He said, fighting back a sob. “If you want to be a witch, Michelle, then go. If we're not enough for you, then go have your way with the sinners. I can't handle this.”   
  
He stopped fighting. He started sobbing.

  
Mum just stared and glared at Amanda and me. Amanda motioned for me to follower her, and I did so, backing away from Mum, who did not take her eyes off either of us.  
  
“You're no longer welcome in this house,” Mum said softly. “Neither of you.”  
  
I didn't say anything in response, but when we got back to the car, I broke down and cried all the way to the hotel.  



	7. A Long Ride on a Big Red Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I take a ride on the Hogwarts Express and don't get sorted into Ravenclaw.

Amanda wheeled my luggage trolley through King’s Cross station while I chased after her with my shoulder bag biting down into my shoulder. I was trying to fight back tears and swallow my worries. Amanda, to her credit, did her best to keep me in a cheerful mood.

  
“I swear you’re the only girl getting on the Hogwarts Express with bright green nylon luggage,” she said, wheeling past the third platform and dodging a gaggle of pedestrians.  
  
“What kind of train is this?” I asked. “How do they stop Muggles from getting on it?”

“It leaves from Platform Nine and Three Quarters,” Amanda said. “They’ve hidden it. You have to run through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. It’s like a secret passage in one of your video games.”

I frowned. “Amanda, platforms nine and ten aren’t even in this building. And they don’t have a barrier between them; they’re divided by—” ****  
  
Amanda rolled the luggage trolley to a halt, and I looked up. Sure enough, the platforms in front of us were labeled nine and ten, with a solid brick barrier between them. Reality once again refused to stay in the box that I wished to shove it into.

  
“I stand corrected,” I said with a sigh.  
  
Amanda stepped aside. “You want to do it?”

I stared at the barrier and nodded. “By the way, you should tell the wizards in charge of this place that I dig the liminality symbolism.”  
  
“The what?” Amanda arched an eyebrow.  
  
“Nothing.”

  
I rested my hands on the trolley’s handle and took a deep breath, then rushed at the barrier. My eyes snapped shut just before the trolley made contact with the brick, but the jolt I expected did not come. I felt a strange softness and give and then kept going, like pushing aside a curtain.

When I heard commotion around me, I looked up from my metaphor to find myself surrounded by witches and wizards—young and old alike, running about, engaging in hugs and well wishes, farewells and greetings. Thankfully Amanda was wrong; there were a couple other young witches and wizards with green nylon luggage. Like me, they were clearly Muggleborn, looking around nervously and wearing modern fashions as opposed to the wonderfully retro-chic that wizards generally wore when they weren’t in robes. There was an enormous steam train, bright red, on the tracks beyond all the commotion.

 

I walked on out, a bit closer to the train, and heard Amanda emerge from the barrier behind me.   
  
“Wow,” I said. “How do they hide this thing?”

 

“Dumb luck and liberal application of memory charms,” Amanda said.

  
She handed me a ticket, then knelt down, gently pulling on my shoulder to get me to turn around. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes that day; it was as though she saw something admirable in me. I think maybe it was courage she thought she saw, though I’m not sure if courage was really what gave me the ability to get on the train that day.

 

“Now listen,” she said. “I want you to write me every chance you get. Don’t think you’re betraying your faith, and don’t worry. If worse comes to worse, you can always come stay with me.”

 

I tried to fight back the tears that were fighting to come out, more because I was thinking of my parents than because of what Amanda said.

 

She flashed a smile to mask sadness. “Your parents will come around in time, Michelle.”

 

“Maybe,” I said. It felt like a lie.

 

“Good luck,” Amanda said, pulling me into a hug. “I’ll be praying for you.”

 

*******

I slid into one of the cabins on the train and stuffed my bags in the compartment above my head. I was terrified. The train started moving before I could sit down, so I practically fell into the seat. There were a couple more first years in the car with me, but from what I could hear both of them were born and bred in Wizarding culture. I felt out of place even among my supposed peers. The fact that I was a year older than they were and even less educated didn’t help.

 

“The Sorting is never a sure thing,” the one on the left said. “Everyone said my cousin was a genius, but he ended up in Hufflepuff.”

 

“Wow, rotten deal that,” the other said. “I hope I get put in Ravenclaw. Mum says I’m a right lot smarter than any of my sisters.”

 

I looked away. Amanda had told me a little about the Houses and getting Sorted, but she’d made it sound like a formality. She said she and Uncle Paul both knew they’d be Ravenclaws going in, and sure enough they were. She was sure I’d be a Gryffindor, the house where the brave people went. I thought she was probably wrong, but Ravenclaw didn’t sound like me either. I hated studying.

 

Hufflepuff, Amanda had said, was where ‘everyone else’ goes. She said that going to Hufflepuff isn’t really a bad thing, it just means that you’re too normal for the other houses.

  
_“Normal is good,” I had said._  
  
“Maybe,” replied Amanda.

  
Amanda didn’t really say much about Slytherin. She said it was for ‘ambitious’ students, but she said it with a tone that indicated ‘ambitious’ was a code-word for something else, and she didn’t want to elaborate. I got the idea that she did not like the Slytherin house.

 

“Anyway,” the boy on the right said, looking across the cabin at me. “What about you? You’re older than us, right? What house are you in?”

 

I blinked, startled out of my reverie, realizing that I had been fumbling with the little silver cross that dangled from my neck. “Um, I’ve not been sorted yet. I missed last year because of… parents. Just parents.”

 

“Ah,” he said knowingly. “Muggleborn then?”

 

I nodded. I didn’t elaborate, I just sat back and stared at the two of them, not sure whose turn it was.  
  
“John Edgecombe,” the boy on the right said. He extended a hand. I reached out tentatively and finally shook it.

  
I smiled a bit. “Michelle Coplin,” I said.

 

“Endymion Summerby,” said the boy on the left. “You can call me Endy. In fact, I’d rather you call me Endy because nobody ever calls me Endymion unless I’m in trouble.”

 

I grinned. Endymion reminded me of Rupert.

  
“You afraid?” John asked. “I kind of am, and I’ve had relatives going to Hogwarts all my life. Weird stuff can happen there ya know. Cuz’ I heard last year there was a Death Eater that got himself hired as a teacher, and it turned out he had You-Know-Who wrapped up in his turban.”

 

“That’s just rubbish,” Endy said. “I saw that professor Squirrel when my cousin left last year and he was ‘fraid of everything. He’d die of a heart attack if he saw a photo of You-Know-Who?”

 

I blinked. “I don’t know who.”

 

John’s eyes widened. “You don’t know who?” He glanced at Endy. “She seriously doesn’t know who! I thought Muggleborns got all read up on the Wizarding World before they got on this train.”

 

I frowned. “Well, I did read a lot about Quidditch,” I said. “But I still have no idea who you’re talking about.”

 

“You need to,” Endy said. “You-Know-Who was the biggest, baddest Dark Wizard in the past fifty years. Lead a bunch called the Death Eaters.”  
  
I blinked. “Them, I’ve heard of.”

 

John looked worried. “You better have, for your own sake. Anyway. You-Know-Who.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “ _Voldemort._ He got it in his head he could be immortal and rule the world or some such, so he made himself an army of witches and wizards who wanted some of that action.”  
  
“But then he got his arse kicked by a baby,” Endy said. “Well, he was a baby then. This was years ago. He went after some kid called Harry Potter, and BOOM! He blew up. Guess he couldn’t be too scary if a baby beat him, but he was a big deal then. And anytime parents wanna scare kids these days they just say ‘Don’t do that or You-Know-Who’ will get you, or ‘Be nice or you’ll wind up as the next You-Know-Who.’”

 

I cringed back in my chair. “A bad wizard, then?”  
  
“The worst,” Endy said. “His mates called him The Dark Lord. Some people still do.”

 

I was thoroughly afraid this time, and feeling a bit ill. Even if this Voldemort guy was gone, who was to say that another one couldn’t show up? I flashed an apologetic smile at John and Endy and went out of the cart to the train’s lavatory. I felt clammy and sweaty, so I wiped my face off and tried to calm down for a minute. I knew there were bad wizards, but now there were Dark Lords too? I felt as though I’d been ripped from my life and stuck in a video game. Except I wasn’t the super-powerful hero with the magic sword. I was just an ordinary girl with a five-galleon wand and a set of second-hand robes. I took a deep breath and pulled on the chain around my neck, flipping the cross over and over between my fingers. The silver went from cold to warm as I clutched it, and I whispered prayers. Safety, for myself, for Amanda, for my parents. I didn’t understand why, if Amanda was right, God wanted me to be in this world.

 

And I wondered, that maybe my terror meant Amanda was wrong and I wasn’t supposed to be.

 

I decided to write her about it as soon as I was settled in.

 

As I made my way back towards the cabin, a boy started by me, about my height. He might have been cute, except that his face was scrunched up in a ferret-like sneer that made me want to punch him. And that was before he opened his mouth.

 

“Pardon me,” he said in a way that made me think he thought I should be the one asking for pardon. “Your filthy blood better not have fouled the lavatory.”

 

I stopped dead in my tracks and looked at him, impulsively stepping to block his movement. “What?” said. I was taken aback.  
  
“You heard me,” the boy said. “I’m not in the mood to be civil. Suffice it to say I’ll be asking my father to lobby for separate lavatories for Pure Bloods next chance I get. Now get out of my way before I hex you.”

 

A voice behind me alerted me to someone coming down the aisle from the other direction.

 

“Why don’t you pick on someone who knows magic, Malfoy?” said a girl who stepped up beside us. She had very bushy brown hair that framed an intense face.   
  
“I’ll be happy to, Granger,” the boy—Malfoy, apparently—barked. His drawl gave the awfulest impression of a snobbish rich person I’d ever heard. His hand moved towards the insides of his robes, but in a flash the girl’s arm raised, a small wand thrust into Malfoy’s face. His eyes flickered to it, and then to me and the girl.   
  
“Neither of you are worth the effort,” he spat, stomping off. He sounded as though he were hurt, as if his ego had been slapped so hard that it stung. He went into the lavatory I’d just come out of and slammed the door. I stared at my rescuer and muttered a thank you.  
  
“No problem,” he girl said. She extended a hand. “Hermione Granger.”

  
I realized I was probably still timid looking, but tried to put on a brave face and extended my own hand. “Michelle Coplin,” I said. “Who was that?”

 

“Draco Malfoy,” the girl explained. “A foul, loathsome little cockroach.”

 

Hermione glanced back his way again to make sure he was gone, and then grabbed my arm and practically dragged me towards another cabin. She shut the curtain on the door and sat down.

 

“Hopefully he’ll just go back to whatever dark hole he crawled out of,” Hermione said. “He’s a Slytherin, and most of them are bad news. Lots of Death Eaters came from that House.”

 

I frowned and sat down beside her. “I’ll keep that in mind. Um, I was actually sitting in another cabin,” I said. “Mind if I get back to it? You could come with, it’s not full.”

 

“Thanks,” Hermione said. “But no, I was also sitting with someone. I just wanted to ask you something in private.”  
  
“Why me?”  
  
“I’m asking everyone who looks honest, because it’s really bothering me. I’m looking for a couple boys who were supposed to be on this train. They’re my friends—Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter?”

 

“Harry Potter?” I said, arching an eyebrow. “ _The_ Harry Potter? The one that blew up You-Know-Who as a baby?”

 

Hermione’s eyes widened. I thought she’d laugh at first, but instead she frowned. “He didn’t blow him up. It’s complicated. But that’s beside the point. Harry doesn’t like being the center of attention, so his absence is rather conspicuous.”

 

“His absence?”  


“Neither he or Ron showed up on the train today, and he and Ron are nearly inseparable. Ron’s brothers and his younger sister are here, but Harry and Ron aren’t. I looked all over and I’m starting to get worried. You’ve not seen them, have you? Perhaps at the train station?”

 

“What do they look like?”   
  
“Ron is tall and ginger. Harry is, well, average. He has dark hair, with thick rimmed glasses and a scar on his forehead. You might have missed the scar because his hair covers it up.”

 

I tried to think back to the train station, but I was so preoccupied then thinking about my own problems that I hadn’t really paid any attention to the people around me. _Michelle Coplin,_ I chided myself. _Loving her neighbor as herself is the least of her priorities._

 

“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen either of them.”  
  
Hermione nodded, her frown firmly in place. “Well, thanks anyway. I’ll keep asking around.”

 

We waited a few moments and until we heard Malfoy’s voice go by talking to someone who didn’t say anything back, and then Hermione opened the cabin door and ran on out. I sat in the car for a bit longer, checking my watch. We still had a long way to go before we got to Hogwarts, and I figured I could easily remember names like John Edgecombe and Endymion Summerby if I discovered anything missing from my bags, so I slid back on the seat and lay down across it to take a nap.

 

Before long my mind was swimming upstream through a series of vaguely remembered dreams, dreams that clicked and clacked along with the progress of the train, until finally arriving in a dark cave where a red, horned satanic figure that I knew was Lord Voldemort stood over me laughing a deep, echoing laugh.

 

I shook awake with the rumble of the train and looked around, squinting in the dim light. The sun was no longer overhead but arcing in through gaps in the curtains as we approached mid-afternoon. I stretched and then slumped back, my chin resting on my chest where I could feel the cold chain of my necklace against it. I was hungry and needed another trip to the lavatory, so I got up on wobbily knees and—”

 

“You smell of fear,” a voice intoned, right in front of me.

 

I felt as though a frigid, clammy hand seized my heart and stopped it dead, and I fell back into my seat. I let out a scream and demanded to know who had spoken.

 

The voice spoke again, and this time I noticed movement—the flapping of lips at first, and then an entire human body—nearly invisible against the dark backdrop of the seat opposite me. The colors of the seat dipped down and form legs against the wooden detailing, and also jutted up, becoming a shadowy midnight-blue head against the red wall of the train. Then the monochromatic boy flushed with color, his robes becoming black and his skin becoming a pale, sickly white. His eyes were bizarrely pink and his hair was even lighter than that of Draco Malfoy. Like some sort of ghoul, I thought.

 

“What are you?” I sputtered.  
  
“A pubescent male human being,” answered the boy, his accent strangely difficult to place. “Of the Pure Blood Wizard variety, for all that’s worth.”

 

“Who are you, then?” I said. “Why were you hiding in here and why are you all white? How did you do that thing with the colors?”

 

“In order,” the boy said, “my name is Grant Danesti, I was hiding in here because I prefer to be alone, I’m white because I’m albino, and I taught myself Chamelomancy to hide from my sisters because they’re both wicked bints who I can’t defend myself against because of parental favoritism.”

 

I blinked. So he was just an albino? Not some kind of monster? I felt relieved and silly, but still horribly creeped out.

 

“And since I’m usually pretty good at guessing the questions people will ask about me,” Grant Danesti said, “Yes, I was in here when you and the other Muggleborn discussed the disappearances of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and my accent is South African because I’m from a village outside Johannesburg. Any other details of my personal life you’d like to pry about?”

 

I looked at his eyes and they seemed less sinister than they had initially.

 

“I smell of fear?” I said, finally processing what he’d said to begin with. “What does that mean?”

 

“Exactly what I said.” Grant smiled, strategically displaying a canine tooth. “Fear is not always a bad thing. It’s advantageous to know when you’re outmatched.”

  
“Am I outmatched now?” I said, my hand slipping down towards my wand. I didn’t actually know any spells, but if Hermione What’s-Her-Name could scare Malfoy away by just pointing it, maybe I could bluff Grant as well. If I needed to. I fought the urge to gulp.

 

“Probably. Naturally, I know more magic than you, having grown up with a witch and wizard as my parents. But you don’t need to point your wand at me. I just want to talk. You seem like far more interesting conversation than anyone I’ve met on this train so far.”

 

“Do you scare the sod out of everyone you want to gab with?” I stood up. “You were watching me sleep. That’s beyond wrong.”

 

Before Grant Danesti could protest, I stomped out of the door and headed towards the lavatory, then back to the cabin where Endymion and John were both half-heartedly having a pretend dagger-fight with their wands. They conspicuously stopped when I walked in.  
  
“Well that was a ruddy long pit-stop,” Endy said. He handed me what appeared to be a frog-shaped piece of chocolate. “Saved you some stuff from the sweets’ cart if you’re hungry. We still don’t get to eat supper for another three hours.”

 

I took the Chocolate Frog and fiercely bit its head off. I was hungrier than I had realized, and better yet, the chocolate helped ease the anxieties caused by my Voldemort-laced dreams and train-car encounters with creepy albino boys. I thought if things like this were the norm for the wizarding world, I’d at least be consoled by the fact I would never get bored.

 

*******

 

I was bored by the time the train clattered to a stop at Hogsmede Station, the sun sinking low now beyond the horizon casting its last rays up through the sky. Most of us had already changed into our robes by this point, while several students who had put it off were now scrambling to put them on. When we disembarked I saw an enormous bearded man calling for all the ‘Firs years’ to join him, and I hesitantly strode over to where he stood, praying that he wouldn’t eat us.

 

He told us that his name was Rubeus Hagrid and that he would take us across the lake on boats, leading us down a narrow path to the massive black lake. Hogwarts Castle gleamed in the distance, its towers and walls shining orange in the setting sun. Mr. Hagrid pointed to a fleet of fifteen boats tied up at the shore. I stared at the wooden vessels and wondered if they’d hold up under the giant man’s incredible girth.

 

“No more’n four to a boat,” he warned.  


By the time we got loaded up, the cloud cover had increased and darkness was rolling in, but we cast off from the dock and were shortly halfway across the lake. In the night, the castle was lit up from the inside, dozens of windows shining flickering light out from within and casting light patches and shadows outside, an image reflected in the lake around us. My mouth stayed open the whole way, and I wondered if I was under some sort of magical trance. The spectacle of the castle distracted me from the chill of the evening. I had the urge to relax and I almost leaned back on a scared looking ginger girl who was biting on the sleeve of her robes.

 

Mr. Hagrid docked our boats on the castle side of the lake and led us up stone staircases to a huge oak front door that looked as solid as the stone walls of the castle. He knocked three times, and the door opened.

 

A tiny man greeted us with a smile. “Ah, the first years are here, and none of them wet this year. Fantastic.”

  
“Quaffle’s in yer pitch now, Professor Flitwick,” Mr. Hagrid said.

 

Professor Flitwick explained the sorting ceremony, and then led us into a massive hall lined with tables. Hundreds of students were already seated, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. I noticed that it was excessively bright, and I looked up to see hundreds of candles floating in the air above us, suspended by nothing. And above that, there seemed to be no ceiling, the room open onto the night sky.

  
“It’s enchanted. There _is_ actually a roof up there,” said Endymion Summerby. He was in front of me in the single file line we had formed.

 

Some of them turned to stare at us as Professor Flitwick led us first years up towards the he front of the great hall, where, at the center of a table occupied by older witches and wizards that I assumed were the professors, Albus Dumbledore stood, his robes as flamboyant as ever.  


I noticed at the front of the hall was a tall pointed wizard hat on a stool, and that everyone was looking at it expectantly.

 

Then the hat sang, and I nearly fell over from shock.

 

_I may seem just a humble hat_

_But take a closer look_

_I know my stuff, so don’t doubt me_

_I’ll read you like a book!_

_Put me down upon your head_

_And let me take a peek_

_I can see your every thought_

_And know just what you seek_

_Learn you well, young wizards all_

_Practice your Wand and Broom_

_For though you may be wracked with doubts,_

_You shall need both quite soon._

_If you’ve got brains to spare, my friend,_

_Then Ravenclaw’s your place._

_There spells you’ll learn and grades you’ll tend,_

_Your OWLs and NEWTs you’ll ace._

_If you have courage more than sense_

_Call Gryffindor your home._

_With friends so brave at your defence_

_You’ll never fight alone!_

_But should you value guile the most,_

_And raw ambition prize,_

_Then Slytherin will take you in_

_And lift you to the skies._

_If still your house you do not know_

_And have no fear of toil_

_Then into Hufflepuff you’ll go,_

_Where they are kind and loyal_

The Sorting Hat leaned forward and grinned.

_But if you prove a certain type_

_And the world ‘round you distorts_

_Then we’ll throw you in Sparklypoo_

_A private hell of sorts._

_So step on up and set me down_

_Atop your weary brow._

_  
I’ll sort you right, make no mistake_

_You’re in my ball court now._

 

Before I recovered from the shock, the Hat had finished its song and the four tables of students started applauding. I felt my heart beating even faster than the handclaps. Meanwhile, Professor Flitwick handed a rolled up piece of parchment to a tall aged woman in a pointed hat much newer and in better repair than the Sorting Hat. She unrolled it and stepped forward, started calling off names to come forth.

“Alonso, Gehenaa,” she called. A young black girl stepped forward and sat the hat on her head; we waited a few seconds before it shouted GRYFFINDOR! A cheer erupted from the table on the left side of the room and Gehenna Alonso ran over to that table with a grin on her face.

“Anaximander, Allen,” had his name called next. He was sorted into Ravenclaw.

  
“Aulin, Sypha,” was called forward, and sorted into Slytherin.

Three more young wizards went, then a witch. I zoned out by the time they got to Burton, Beth. Then I heard a name that started with ‘Ca’ called and I realized I’d be soon. The Hat didn’t miss a beat, shouting out the names of the house soon after it flopped down on the head of the student.

Celeste Cooper was sorted into Hufflepuff, and then…

  
“Coplin, Michelle!” called the tall witch. I froze solid, and the professor had to call my name a couple more times before I slowly crept forward and picked the Hat up, sitting down and adjusting my seating until I was comfortable before finally sitting it down on my head.  
  
“Ohh?” the Hat said. “Yes, interesting. You find the unexpected in the smallest packages some time.”  
  
“What?” I whispered.  
  
“You’ve got some courage, yes,” the Hat said. “Brain is in good working order. But there’s something else in there. It’s deep, but I can feel it. It’s a dam waiting to break. You’re an audacious one.”  
  
My stomach turned.  
  
“Yes, I think this is the right choice. Yes indeed.” The Hat took a breath, and then loudly intoned a single world: “SLYTHERIN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Sorting Hat Verse:
> 
> But should you value guile the most,  
> And raw ambition prize,  
> Then Slytherin will take you in  
> And teach you racist lies!


	8. A Dungeon and a Classroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I learn what Slytherins think of people like me.

The table below a snake-emblazoned banner of green and silver erupted—some student clapping and celebrating the new addition to their house; others, a loud and vocal group led by a familiar young man with blonde hair and a ferrety face, stood up and began crying foul. I couldn’t make out their words, but I could see their angry faces. They didn’t want this new student in Slytherin. And the worst part was, the new student was _me_.

I looked up past my eye sockets to the brim of the tattered gray hat sitting on my head. _Slytherin_? Did it just sort me into _Slytherin_? The house where the bad witches go? The house that Draco Malfoy, who hated me for my blood, called home? I slowly stood up and put the Sorting Hat back down on the chair, then slowly crept over towards the Slytherin table. A tall bony girl who looked grim invited me to sit next to her. Half a table down, Draco Malfoy and two large boys on either side of him sat scowling. Most ignored me and continued to watch the Sorting. I noticed that Sypha Aulin, who I now realized would be a dorm-mate of mine, was among them.

A few of the students were friendly to me at least. A black boy a few years older than me on the other side of the table gave a nervous smile and introduced himself as Terrance Austin, a Muggleborn in his fifth year. Some of the students cringed at the mention of his heritage.

After Czasz, Victor was sorted into Hufflepuff, I heard a familiar name called.  
  
“Danesti, Grant!”

The creepy albino boy approached the hat silently and placed it on his head. A moment later, The hat called out his house: “Slytherin!”

This time, nobody cheered.

They just stared at him and his oddness as he joined us at the table, taking the seat next to Terrance Austin. The fifth-year Muggleborn also made attempts to be friendly to him, but Grant Danesti shrugged them off. He sat staring at his plate in silence, and I wondered if he were perhaps more pitiable than creepy.

I looked up as John Edgecombe was sorted into Ravenclaw, and kept watching, trying not to stare at Grant, as the sorting of more students passed. To my dismay, Endymion Summerby was also sorted into Ravenclaw.

Finally the sorting was done, and after brief congratulations, Albus Dumbledore stepped forward in his blue, star-and-moon-spangled robes.  
  
“Greetings and welcome!” he intoned, his voice carrying over the hall without any amplification. “I welcome all students, both new and old, and I will have further remarks following dinner. For now, suffice it to say that our kitchen staff has worked very hard on this feast and I hope you all will enjoy!”

As Dumbledore finished, the sparkling plates and ceramic jugs in front of us suddenly filled with food and drink; plates piled high with chicken legs, stews, and shrimp, jugs filled with all sorts of juices. I stared dumfounded for a moment. The other students—everyone who hadn’t just been sorted, at least, immediately began digging in. I looked towards Terrance for approval, but he was already scarfing down a helping of bangers and mash. Even Grant, sullen though he was, began picking at a chicken leg. With that, my hunger managed to subdue my irrational fear of poisoning. I pulled two great big slices of bread into my plate, as well as a cross section of the meats that were within arms’ reach, and made myself a composite sandwich.

It was a thing of beauty.

A while later the dinner vanished and desserts appeared instead. I watched as a thin man with greasy black hair strode in, a strange look of smug satisfaction on his face. He spoke to Professor McGonagall and to Dumbledore before leading the former out of the Great Hall. I soon let them slip out of my mind and stuffed my face with a custard tart. Eventually, the night was wearing on and I began to feel sleepy.  
  
Dumbledore stood again at the front of the room, and again welcomed everyone to Hogwarts.

“We hope to have another successful year of magical education. I would like to thank all students ahead of time for their cooperation in following all the school rules, as well as the directives of your Heads of House and prefects. I would remind everyone that, as usual, you need to contact your Head of House as soon as possible if you wish to join your house Quidditch team.”  
  
Dumbledore turned to his right and motioned towards a blond professor in flamboyant clothing and bright aquamarine robes. I thought I’d seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t place his face.

“I’d like you all to extend a warm welcome to Professor Gilderoy Lockhart,” Dumbledore said. “He is replacing the Qurinius Quirrel as our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher after his unfortunate—and much-gossiped about—demise last year. Suffice it to say that Professor Lockhart has nothing concealed in his turban. I’ve checked myself.”

There was a sudden flood of uncomfortable laughter from the students tables, while several professors stood in gaping awe at Dumbledore.

“Professor Lockhart is an accomplished adventurer, as I’m sure many of you have already read about in his bestselling autobiography, _Magical Me_ , and I am proud to have him as a member of the Hogwarts staff.”

Several of the teachers, particularly McGonagall, stared at the headmaster skeptically.

Just as Dumbledore was about to say something else, Professor Lockhart stood and raised his voice above the Headmaster’s.  
  
“Thank you, Albus,” Lockhart said. “Allow me to say that I relish the opportunity to teach a new generation of witches and wizards the fine science of defending against the Dark Arts. It’s just as I wrote in _Year with the Yeti_ : a young person is like an empty bowl, only it’s not quite empty. It’s full of mushy stuff: ideas, beliefs, aspirations. What we teachers do is rip all that nonsense out, wipe the brains and guts on our Gilderoy-Lockhart-embroidered aprons (available at Madame Malkin’s for thirteen Galleons), and refill the empty children with knowledge. Because ultimately knowledge is the key to success and happy futures.”

The students stared at him, a few clapping politely but most sitting in silence.  
  
“Thank you,” the headmaster said, “for those inspiring remarks. Though I would prefer if you address me as Professor Dumbledore before the student body.”

“Of course,” Lockhart said with a smile that made me think he missed the undercurrent of reprimand in the headmaster’s voice.

Dumbledore made a few more odd announcements about the year and then dismissed us to our dorms. Dozens of students began filing out of the Great Hall while the first years were directed to line up with their house prefects. Three Slytherin prefects tried to round us all up and get us in something resembling a line; there were ten first years in all, five boys and five girls. I only knew the names of Grant Danesti and Sypha Aulin. One boy in particular stood out because he was taller and thinner than the rest, with a squarish face and messy brown hair. His skin was slightly darker than your average Caucasian too, and I thought perhaps he was half Latino.

The prefects led us down a flight of stairs and through a series of winding corridors under the castle, until we came to a blank stone wall dripping with stale water.  
  
“This is the entrance,” one of the prefects said. “You can only enter if you know the password.”

Another prefect, a girl with long curly hair the color of moss, smirked. “Don’t tell the pass word to anybody, especially Gryffindors. They say Salazar Slytherin would come out of his grave and punish the school if a Gryffindor ever sets foot in our Common Room.”

“Why is it in the dungeon?” Sypha said. “Couldn’t we have a nice high place atop a tower?”  
  
“Naw,” the boy prefect said. “Underground is better in case the Muggles ever decide to drop one of their Adam Bombs on us. It could happen.”  


“Enough,” the tall wide-jawed boy said. “Just tell us the password.”

I noticed that he had an American accent, the sort of practiced, neutral American accent you see on television.

“Right, right,” the boy prefect said. “Patience is a bloody virtue and all. The password is Camelot. It’s subject to change every few weeks, so pay attention.”

As the boy said ‘Camelot’ the wall slid open, and we all entered. Slytherin Common Room was a long room with a low ceiling, green lamps decorating the ceiling and chairs with high backs and green cushions placed along the walls. In the center of the room was a long green rug with silver and gold embroidery with two coffee tables and couches on either end. Across one wall a beautifully detailed mantelpiece that looked like a massive snake head sat over a fireplace, a small fire dancing in the snake’s mouth.

The prefects pointed us towards two opposing hallways that led off to the boys and girls dormitories. The green-haired prefect led the girls on to a room near the far end of the hall. Inside, five enormous four-poster beds were made with sheets. The way they were all aligned against the wall gave it a utilitarian look, like a military barracks or a hotel. The same green lamps lit the room, casting heavy shadows. I saw my big nylon bag at the foot of one of the beds, and quickly found my way to it. The other girls pulled their robes off and began exchanging names. Sypha Aulin’s I knew. Another girl, thin and wiry with curly red hair, was named Emma Taggart. Another girl with cropped hair a darker blonde than mine was called Artemis McFly. She bragged about how her entire family for (mumble) generations was pureblood wizards; she said they’d recently moved from Ireland because the bottom had fallen out of the leprechaun gold speculation market. She then launched into an explanation that I did not comprehend in the slightest.

The last girl was called Josie Cohen, and she had black hair and a soft smile. She was not very talkative, and mostly nodded along to nearly every word that came out of Sypha’s mouth.

Finally they turned to me.  
  
“What’s your name?” Sypha said with an overly-polite smile.  
  
“I’m Michelle,” I said. “Your friendly neighborhood video game enthusiast. Kind of new to the magic thing.”

Josie laughed. “What’s a video game?”  
  
I stared at her blankly, having no idea how to explain the concept of a video game to someone who didn’t actually know what ‘video’ was. I told her that it was a Muggle toy and left it at that.

  
Sypha smiled and leaned forward on her bed. “I know you! You’re that girl who was behind me in line at Ollivander’s.”  
  
“Yeah,” I said. “Behind you.”

“So you’re a Muggleborn?” Sypha asked, staring at me as though I were a shiny trinket. “That’s _fascinating_. My daddy says that you shouldn’t be allowed into Hogwarts.”

I frowned. I wasn’t sure if I ought to be here myself, but for a rather different reason. “What do _you_ think?”  
  
“I think you should,” she said. For a moment I felt better. “After all, it’s not your fault your parents are Muggles. Without us you’d be so ignorant and lost. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live like that. I feel sorry for you.”

The good feeling evaporated. I glared at Sypha, who still had a big self-congratulatory smile plastered on her face, until she seemed to get the point that I was livid with her. She looked perplexed for a moment, but then Emma called her over to help her with something, and I took the opportunity to get dressed for bed.  
  
My mind was a swirl of activity when I sat down, but as my head hit the pillow all that seemed to slip away and I fell into a deep sleep, dreaming that Rupert and I were riding on the back of a massive dragon and burning goblins with its flaming breath. Then I accidentally burned up my parents and it startled me awake.

 

*******

I fell back asleep for two hours after the dream woke me up, but after that it was useless. No matter how I tossed and turned, I couldn’t get to sleep again. I got out of bed and took a cool shower, then pulled on the typical grey skirt and blouse, green tie deal that many of the girls wore beneath their robes. I fiddled with the tie for five minutes, then tossed it aside, listening to Emma snore. After that became tiresome, I hesitantly walked out into the hall and made my way to the common room, finding a chair and sitting down. There were only one or two other students up this early, and none of them paid any attention to me. A clock above the mantelpiece said 7:00 AM.

I opened the Bible that Amanda had bought me in my lap and began reading in the dim greenish light. I must have read for quite a while, because the lights gradually brightened. I flipped around through various books, reading words from which I tried to glean comfort and direction, before coming upon a familiar passage in Matthew.

 

_Then He opened His mouth and taught them, saying:_

_Blessed are the poor in spirit,_  
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  
       Blessed are those who mourn,  
For they shall be comforted.  
       Blessed are the meek,  
For they shall inherit the earth.  
       Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,  
For they shall be filled.  
       Blessed are the merciful,  
For they shall obtain mercy.  
       Blessed are the pure in heart,  
For they shall see God.  
       Blessed are the peacemakers,  
For they shall be called sons of God.

In all honesty, I would prefer not to tell this next part because it reflects badly on several people who I now count my friends, but everyone I’ve spoken about it with has encouraged me, prodded me to share it, and it speaks to the atmosphere present in the Slytherin house in those years.

By the time I looked up from my reading the Common Room had filled up, with at least two dozen students milling about, going over the schedules and chatting excitedly. I overheard the words Quidditch and Snape quite often, and had deduced from conversation the previous night that Snape was the Slytherin Head of House, the greasy-haired man that had removed McGonagall from the feast. Others were saying that Harry Potter and Ronald Weasily had eventually shown up in a flying car and had crashed it into the Whomping Willow outside the castle. _So much_ , I thought, _for his not liking to be the centre of attention._

A shadow fell over me from the periphery of my vision, and I turned to see Draco Malfoy, flanked on either side by one boy that towered over him and another that seemed twice as wide. Behind him, a girl and a couple more boys, both older and even smugger-looking than Malfoy stared down at me. I pulled my feet up into the chair, as if my knees could provide an adequate shield.

“I caught a whiff of something foul when I opened the door to my dorm,” Draco said.

One of the older boys, who had a prefect’s badge drew his wand. He spoke in a raspy voice. “It was bad enough when that stupid hat Sorted Austin in here with us, but now we’ve got another Mudblood in our ‘ouse, and before the first one’s even taken ‘is bloody OWLs.”  
  
The word _Mudblood_ drew gasps and stares from several of the other students. I quickly gathered it wasn’t something you were supposed to say in polite company.  
  
“What’s your name, Mudblood?” The girl said, poking me with her wand. “Something stupid, I bet.”  
  
“Who cares about its name?” the prefect said. “It’ll be gone soon enough. _Petrificus Totalus.”_  
  
I tried to react, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, couldn’t even hold my breath. Every voluntary function ceased, and my heart sped up. Ice-cold fear rushed through me and I wanted to scream and run and hide. I couldn’t do any of it. The smiling slowly raised his wand and I lifted off the chair, gravity defied. My Bible fell to the floor.

  
Then he flicked the wand towards the other side of the room and the room and I flew in that direction. Several younger students shouted and ran out of the way; the wall was fast approaching. Inches before I slammed into it, I stopped in mid air. I couldn’t move my eyes to look around, but I could hear the smiling prefect still laughing.

Suddenly I reversed direction, then sailed sideways, hovering closer to the fire. I heard several cheers as he slowly lowered me towards the dancing flames, the heat doing its best to sear my skin. Tears began leaking from my eyes. Then I stopped again, hovered away from the flames, then back towards them, my attacker scoring his torture with makeshift music, as though from an ancient Tom and Jerry cartoon. Finally he walked over to the fireplace next to me. I could barely make out his open-mouth smile because of the stinging tears.  
  
“Here you go, Tim,” the prefect said, and flicked his wand back across the room. I flew that way, stopping dead when the boy known as Tim raised his wand. He gave me a few half-hearted twirls.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Tim said. “We’re not gonna hurt you. We’re just having our fun.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Draco said. “Spoils the fun.”  
  
By this time a commotion I could barely comprehend had started amongst a crowd that I could barely see. I heard Grant Danesti’s voice shout above the crowd.

  
“Stop it! What the hell are you lot doing?”  
  
“Keep out of this, freak,” the prefect barked at him. “This is none of your—”

“STUPEFY!” Grant shouted. There was a flash of red and the prefect hit the ground.  
  
Wands flashed again, along with a shout of some incantation I couldn’t make out from Draco Malfoy, and Grant was blasted back and slammed into the stone wall of the dungeon.  
  
I heard more shouting, more spells flying, and arguing. The green haired prefect knelt by me and waved her wand over me. There was a warm feeling throughout my body and I could finally move again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.  
  
“Get away from me!” I spat, climbing to my feet and staggering away from her, only to run into two other witches, stumbling on shaky legs.

I felt my lungs working in over time, trying to get enough oxygen to carry me back to my bed room. I kicked open the door, nearly smashing Artemis in the face, and ran to my bed where I curled up and began sobbing, sucking in air until the sick feeling in my stomach lessened.  
  
“This place is horrible,” I said. “I hope it burns, I hope it burns to the ground.”  
  
“Michelle, what happened?” Josie was immediately sitting on my bed, her arm on mine, trying to comfort me. I didn’t answer. I just lay on the covers until I was no longer afraid to move.

 

*******

 

Breakfast that day was delicious, but I wasn’t very hungry, both from the shock of the attack and because I had eaten so much the previous night. My appetite lessened further when the OWLs came and some loud, ear-puncturing shouts erupted from an enchanted envelope. The others at the table told me that it was the mother of one of the boys who had crashed into the tree the night before.

After Josie and Emma left the table, the green-haired prefect sat down across from me.  
  
“Listen. Michelle, right?”  
  
I nodded, only vaguely wondering who had told her my name.

“I’m sorry what happened to you this morning.” She extended a hand. “Arianna Davis. Look, I’m no bleeding heart; I don’t care about Muggleborn rights. I don’t want you to think I’m going to fight your battles or help you with your homework. I’m talking to you as Head Girl, not as your friend. What they did to you was stupid and cruel and I’m not going to tolerate it. Can you tell me how it started?”

I told her about what Draco Malfoy had said and that the first one to actually attack me was the prefect.

“Yes, Daniel Rosier,” Arianna said with disdain. “How that boy became a prefect I’ll never know.”  
  
“And his partner, the one called Tim,” I said.  
  
“Tim Shepherd. Not quite as vicious. He’s more of a follower than a leader.”  
  
“And the three that were my age, the ones with Draco Malfoy.” I looked down the table where Malfoy and his accomplices were sitting, talking animatedly about Rosier’s feats of terrorism.  
  
“Goyle, Crabbe, and Parkinson,” Arianna said. “Okay. I’m going to tell Snape about all this. It should be sorted out. Hopefully you’ll learn to defend yourself soon enough, though with Captain Vainglory as our new Defense teacher, you’re probably better off learning from another student.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I went back to eating my bacon and ignored Arianna until she left.

When breakfast was over I consulted my schedule and found that my first class was Charms. I was still bubbling over with trepidation as I made my way—through liberal inconspicuous tailing—to the classroom of one Professor Filius Flitwick. Flitwick was standing atop the desk when I walked in—he was incredibly tiny, sporting a gray beard and mustache that seemed overly large for his head.  
  
“Welcome, students, to your first Charms lesson!” he said brightly. “Now I believe for this first class we’re just going to have the Slytherins on the right side and the Ravenclaws on the left. You may choose to mix and match later once you’ve got the hang of some basics.”  
  
I looked across the room and smiled when I saw Endy Summerby and John Edgecombe. They didn’t see me, though. They found seats together near the front of the room and I found one in the back next to Emma.  
  
“Wands out,” Flitwick said. “Prepare to learn some magic.”

He flitwicked his wrist and suddenly a large feather appeared in front of each of the students. Everyone began murmuring about what we were supposed to do with the feather, but Flitwick silenced us and raised his wand. There was a feather on the desk in front of him as well.  
  
“Now, we’re going to practice the Levitation Charm. The incantation for this spell is _Wingardium Leviosa_. Swish and flick your wrist as you say it and focus on buoyancy and weightlessness.”  
  
He demonstrated, pronouncing the incantation carefully for everyone. The feather on his desk hovered into the air, and he guided it with his wand across the room and onto a windowsill.

  
“Any questions? If not, I’ll allow you to begin practicing.”

I stared at the feather, my heart beating harder again. My wand felt like it weighed a kilogram as I picked it up. Here it was—beyond this point I could no longer torture logic to make myself innocent of witchcraft.

I aimed my wand, swished, flicked. Trepidation.  
  
“ _Wingardium Leviosa_.”

 


	9. A Matter of Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I make an enemy and a friend.

There was nothing but darkness. It took me a moment before I realized that I had closed my eyes. I opened them and blinked, my heart still pounding, my wand pointed off in the wrong direction. My feather sat in the same place on the table in front of me, fluttering slightly with the flow of air through the classroom.   
  
I felt relief and disappointment simultaneously—relief that I had not done magic; disappointment that I had failed to do magic. The contradictory feeling settled from my stomach down into my shoes, and my feet tingled like they were waking up from a long nap.  
  
I aimed my wand at the feather and tried again.

_“Wingardium Leviosa!”_

A glow flickered at the end of my wand; the feather slid half a centimeter to the left. Still, it did not levitate. I thought, breathlessly, that perhaps my magic was malformed, unable to do more than make things explode. At first it was another wave of relief. Maybe I could leave Hogwarts and the crazy Slytherin House behind. But then I realized I could be doomed to causing destruction and pain wherever I went for the rest of my life—if I got angry, lights could explode, bones could break. I had to get control over these… powers.   
  
I bit into my lower lip and tried again, multiple times, still not managing to move the feather beyond sudden jerky twitches. I looked around and saw others were having similar trouble; a few students though, had managed to get their feathers to fly.

Professor Flitwick appeared at my side.  
  
“Ah, Michelle Coplin,” he said in a low voice that nevertheless could probably be heard all over the room. “I’m so pleased to see you’ve finally made it to Hogwarts.”  
  
“Finally?” I said, ceasing my futile attempts to levitate the feather and looking at the diminutive teacher.   
  
“Ah, yes,” he said smiling. “I don’t suppose your parents told you. When your letter first went out, I delivered it personally, as is the normal situation with all Muggleborn students. Your mother and father were, well,” he glanced away. …”quite hostile to the idea of you learning magic.”

I gave a sympathetic expression that felt something like a grin wrestling with a frown, and nodded.  
  
“At any rate, we continued to send letters and eventually the Headmaster himself paid you a visit, as I’m sure you’re aware. But you still did not attend last year.”  
  
“It took a bit of convincing,” I said with no small amount of embarrassment. “I’m still anxious about it all.”

“I can tell,” Flitwick said. “I noticed you were having trouble performing the spell. Your form is perfect and you are pronouncing the incantation correctly. I’m prone to guess that your problem is a matter of will.”  
  
I blinked. “Will?”  
  
“Indeed,” Flitwick said. “Will is a key component of any spell, and is usually the most intuitive part. However I’ve on occasion known students who were hesitant to use magic, whether for religious reasons or simple fear.”  
  
I made my wrestling-face again.

  
“Nothing that can’t be overcome, now,” Flitwick said. “Now, Miss Coplin, raise your wand. Now, as you say the incantation, imagine the feather rising. _Will_ it to happen. Let go of your reservations.”

I swished and flicked again, this time imagining that the feather was rising as I spoke. I don’t even remember hearing the words as they rolled off my tongue, just buzzing in my head and the flow of warmth from my shoulder to the tips of my fingers.

And the feather hovered off the table, drifting to the left and right as I moved my wand back and forth. I stared, my mouth hanging open, until my own incredulity swallowed up the magic and the feather fell.

“Very good!” Flitwick said. “Excellent work, Michelle. Five points for Slytherin.”   
  
The diminutive professor moved on to the next table and began aiding another student who was having difficulties, a Ravenclaw with dark curly hair. Meanwhile I sat in silence, occasionally giving a half-hearted swish-and flick of my wand, muttering the incantation. The feather would flicker and dance a bit and settle again when I lost concentration. So this, this was what it felt like to do magic: strangely unremarkable after all the fearful build-up that had accrued in my mind. And, having done it, I knew I’d cast my innocence of witchcraft aside. I was now no longer just magically gifted: I was a witch.

That day we learned several other easy spells like _Lumos_ and _Nox,_ then listened to Flitwick lecture a bit about Charm Theory. I wasn’t really sure what to make of any of it; I tried to scribble some notes with my quill onto parchment, but found that the ink was unruly and my notes ended up covered in blotches _._ The ambivalent, light-headed feeling that came with learning my first spells was leaning towards the unpleasant by the time class was over.

The very next class I had was Potions, which took me back down into the dungeons of the castle. There was no professor at the head of the classroom when I entered, but soon after I found my seat near the tall American boy, a billowing cloud of robes topped with shiny black hair strode into the room, each step accented by what seemed like a purposefully loud tap against the stone floor. The entire room went silent, our first-year-Gryffindor rivals on the other side of the room seeming especially frozen in place. At the head of the room, he whirled around on one foot; I expected some intimidating broad-jawed Adonis to present himself. Instead, the man before me was thin, pale, and dour, with a nose that hooked like Dumbledore’s. The sheen in his hair that I had attributed to a good shampoo seemed, in light of the lack of care he had for his appearance, to morph before my eyes into a layer of dripping grease. I stared for a moment as I realized that he was the same man who had purchased items from Aunt Amanda during the summer. Amanda had told me that he was a teacher here, but with so many other things on my mind, I had forgotten.

So this was the head of our house, ‘Mister Snape’…

I’d also seen him the previous night, but far enough away that he hadn’t triggered the memory. The impression of him in robes, glaring at us from behind a desk was it was oddly comical, as if he thought we should be intimidated on the virtue of his poor hygiene. Snape looked over the room with a sneer, taking roll. He gave a brief introduction to his lessons, and then waved his wand, magicking instructions for a potion onto the blackboard.

The class proceeded about as one would expect. The McFly twins both blew up the contents of their cauldrons halfway through the potion, but it was not until an explosion from the right side of the room shattered some beakers that Snape whirled around, his gaze severe. At the center of the explosion sat a small red-haired girl who stared self-consciously at the warped cauldron, apparently not noticing a small cut on her cheek.

“Ginevra Weasley,” Snape spat. “Clearly you share the same ineptitude for potions as your imbecilic brothers.” Snape waved his wand and the beakers and cauldron fixed themselves. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

I stared at the professor with my mouth hanging open and then started to speak up, but the American boy next to me grabbed my arm and squeezed it tight. I looked over at him, and he shook his head mouthing ‘no’.

My teeth grinding, I raised my free hand.  
  
“Yes, Miss…” Snape glanced at his roster again. “Ah, Miss Coplin.”

“Why did you take points from her when both Artemis and Apollo blew up their potions and you didn’t take any points from Slytherin?”

Snape’s eyes seemed to bore into me, and I suddenly understood what was so fearsome about him—he had a furious temper that made his appearance seem like a trivial detail. I shrank back slightly.

“If you wish points taken from your own house,” he said tersely, “then so be it. Five points from Slytherin.”

At that point I sat in silence, staring at my finished potion until Snape inspected it and declared it ‘below average’.

Not long after, we were gathering our things to leave, when Snape approached me from behind, towering over me. I finished packing up my things before acknowledging his presence—more out of fear, I suppose, than out of resentment.

  
“Miss Coplin,” he said, “I understand that you had an unpleasant experience this morning. I would first of all like to apologize for Daniel Rosier’s lack of discipline.”  
  
_And utter depravity,_ I thought.

“As well,” Snape continued, “His prefecture has been revoked, and he will be serving multiple detentions with me, as will his partner in crime, Timothy Shepherd.”

“Um, thank you, Professor,” I said, not entirely sure if I meant it.

  
“As for you, Miss Coplin, I feel it would behoove you to learn to respect those in authority. Perhaps you’ll find that if you do, your fellow students will be less hostile. You are, after all, an outsider to this world.”

After that, I felt ill; I walked out of the Potions classroom without another word as soon as the bell for lunch rang.

 

*******

After my classes were over I strode back into my room clutching my bag to my chest and fighting back tears. _Horrible people_ , I thought. _All these witches and wizards are horrible people._ As I stuffed my books into my luggage bag and removed the ones I’d need for the next day’s classes, a muffled voice echoed up from the sketchbook somewhere in the stack. My voice.

I pulled it out and opened it to Copi’s page.

“What did you say?” I growled.

“I just said that not all of them are terrible,” Copi said, raising her arms and cringing as if she anticipated a punch. “Professor Flitwick and Josie were nice. And that green-haired girl got the guys that levitated you in trouble.”

“Yeah, but Snape practically told me I deserved what happened to me,” I said. “How can he be allowed to teach here?”

From across the room, Sypha chimed in. “My dad said Snape is the best teacher at this school.”

  
“Your dad’s a moron!” I shouted back, a calculated counterstrike. Sypha’s eyes grew even wider, if that were possible, and then she looked away, trying not to show me her face. I hoped that she was trying to hide tears.  
  
“That wasn’t nice,” Copi said halfheartedly, as Emma pounced on to my bed and began looking over my shoulder.

  
“Is that a talking sketch? Wicked! My brother used to send me those when he worked on founding a Wizarding School in the Congo. They’d dramatically reenact all the things he was doing with the locals, like the time some real-live Witch-Hunters came to the village.”

“I’m more of a conversation-oriented sketch,” Copi beamed.

“So. _Cool._ ” Emma squealed. “Will you teach me how to do that?”  
  
I frowned. “I’m not sure how I did it myself.”

“You probably would be if you paid more attention during the Charm Theory lecture,” said Copi. “I would advise taking pencil and Muggle paper next time. Forget the quill-and-ink business.”

“Noted,” I said, glancing sidelong at the chin digging painfully into my shoulder. “Emma, do you mind?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Emma hopped off the bed and darted off so fast I thought she must have used magic, and I was left alone with my talking sketch.

“Why don’t you write a letter to Amanda?” Copi said as soon as Emma was gone. “You’ll feel better getting your words down on paper, and you’ll be able to get some advice from someone who knows stuff you don’t.”

 

*******

I had finished the letter before I realized that suggestions from myself might not be all that reliable. But then, Amanda had told me to write as often as possible. At the top of the stairs that led to the Owlery, I held up the letter to a window and read it through once more.

 

_Dear Aunt Amanda,_

_  
How are you? Good, I hope._

_Amanda, things here are terrible so far. I’ve met a few nice people, like Professor Flitwick and Josie Cohen, but some of these wizards are outright awful. A boy named Daniel Rosier and his mate whose name I can’t remember, Tom Riddle or something, threw me around the common room this morning. And you were wrong, I‘m not in Ravenclaw, I’m in SLYTHERIN._

_They both got punished for it, but later Professor Snape practically told me I was asking for it because I didn’t ‘respect authority’. I hadn’t done anything to upset them. They did it because I’m a ‘mudblood’ which I guess means Muggleborn. But I don’t even think Snape meant what he said as such… He was just angry with me because I pointed out he took ten points from a Gryffindor student for blowing up her potion but didn’t take any from two Slytherins who blew up theirs. How am I supposed to live here when the head of my house is a spiteful prat?_  
  
And all that on top of the fears I had going in, Amanda. I did witchcraft today. I know you don’t think that’s bad, but my mum and dad do, and I’ll be an outcast from them forever. I wonder if I shouldn’t hate myself now.

_I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t really want to be anywhere._

 

I rolled the letter up and put it in a small tube for the owls that Josie let me borrow. Inside the Owlery, my nose was assaulted by the stench of cages that hadn’t been cleaned, the walls lined with them containing owls on one side that belonged to students and on the other side that belonged to the school. I stepped over the skeletons of small rodents as I made my way across the room and found a friendly looking school owl; I awkwardly attached the tube to its talons.

 _Okay,_ I thought. _Now the part where I talk to an owl and expect it to understand me._

  
“Um, Amanda Vanir,” I said. “Can you please take this to Amanda Vanir?”  
  
The owl trilled happily and launched off through the open windows. I backed out of the room, eager to rid myself of the smell, and ran down the stairs into a fifth-floor corridor, looking back and forth for the stairs I’d walked up via. Emma had mentioned that the stairs in Hogwarts liked to move, and I hoped that hadn’t happened while I was in the tower. I continued down a corridor, at some point removing my wand; I began tapping it against my palm nervously.

Around a corner heard muttering. I approached the mutterer hoping to ask for directions—and stopped dead in front of Daniel Rosier. Rosier stopped too, stared down at me scowling for a moment. Then his face twisted into an even deeper scowl.   
  
“You, Mudblood!” he growled. “You’ve just walked into a fat lot of trouble after you ratted me out to Snape.”  
  
“I didn’t—” I stammered. “Arianna Davis asked—”

“I don’t give a damn!” Rosier reached for a wand. “This is my last year and I have to spend every Saturday of the term in detention all because you don’t know your place, filth.”  
  
He grabbed me by the left shoulder and his other hand went for his wand pocket. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of whatever horrible curse he was planning to cast, and my fist was already clenched tightly around my own wand.  
  
“Wingardium Leviosa!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, doing a vague wrist-wobble—the closest my nerves would get me to a swish and flick under the circumstances. Rosier shot straight up, slamming into the stone ceiling; I darted.

  
The next memory I have was that of a furious thumping in my chest as I ran full bore down an entirely different corridor, rounding yet another corner before sliding behind a colorful and thick curtain in the middle of the hall. There was a window with a ledge behind it and I pulled myself up onto that ledge, then held my breath and tried to remain still. Rosier’s footsteps thundered through the hall, catching up, and I flicked my wand towards a suit of armor on the far end of the corridor, wishing, willing with all I could muster for it to move. My wand sparked brilliantly and the armor flew backwards and slammed into the wall, the crash catching Rosier’s attention more than whatever jittery motion I was imparting to the curtain. He blazed on by me and then, by the sounds of it, down a flight stairs, cursing at me the whole way.

I finally let out my breath out when I was certain my lungs wouldn’t last another second, and continued to huff and puff. As my lungs started to ease off, and my breathing slowed, I finally took note of something: there was a second sound of breathing on the window ledge beside me.  
  
I looked to my left, my eyes saucers, now making out a three-dimensional shape against the stone.  
  
“You still smell of fear,” the shape said.

I leapt, face first into the curtain, and spilt out onto the floor; friction mercifully slowed my fall a little bit. I crawled way from the window as my senses finally began to reorient themselves.   
  
“Danesti!” I blurted. “You bloody creep—are you stalking me?”  
  
Grant hopped down out of the window and his colors returned to normal. He walked over and offered me a hand.

“I’m not touching you,” I hissed. “You just tried to give me another bloody heart attack and you’re insane and you tell people they smell like fear and I hate you.” I caught my breath. “What were you doing back there?”  
  
“Making sure you were okay,” he said. “I saw you run off with a letter. I overheard Rosier say he was heading to the Owlery to collect some skeletons for potions. I didn’t want a repeat of this morning, though from the looks of things you handle it fine yourself.”

I blinked. “You were trying to protect me?”

I thought back to this morning, and how Grant had been the first to stand up to the prefect and his squad of sycophants, and then of my Bible passage, the one I’d reading when the whole thing began.

_Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they shall be called the Children of God._

“I’m sorry,” I said after a moment. “I don’t hate you, not really. You just gave me a fright. Why do you keep saying ‘I smell of fear’?”

“It’s unusual,” Grant said. “Most people aren’t afraid. Not nearly enough for their own good. You’re smart to be afraid. It keeps you sharp, and people aren’t sharp enough these days. I see it in Muggles, but it’s especially bad in Wizards because we think we’re invincible. We think so, until the day comes that we’re not.”

“That’s deep,” I said.  
  
“Not really.” His red eyes looked to the side.

“It’s not really a smell then?”  
  
“No, but I like making people think I have special powers.” Grant started walking towards the stairs and I followed him.  
  
“Do you think maybe we could stick together?” I said after a moment.  
  
Grant nodded. “That sounds good.”


	10. A Bit of Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda replies and I get detention.

I learned some good news later that day: while barging down the fifth floor stares swearing at the top of his lungs and threatening painful hexes against an unspecified ‘Mudblood’ Daniel Rosiers had walked right into a conversation between Professors McGonagall and Sprout. They quickly informed Professor Snape, and to his credit, Snape slapped Rosier with an indefinite suspension. I suspected it was more to save face than it was out of any genuine desire to punish the git.

Grant told me I could still be targeted by people wanting revenge for his suspension, so I stuck close to him whenever possible. We spent the next several days getting to know each other. I’m not sure I can say that we became friends, because for the most part Grant’s interactions with me consisted of me divulging details about my life and interests and Grand proceeding to nitpick every aspect until I wondered if Grant himself was not a curse someone had cast on me.

*******

“You call this a drawing?” he said, grabbing the pencil from my hand and putting the rubber end to the paper. “Look, your perspective’s all wrong. Her ears are lopsided and this eye is smaller than the other one.”

“Hey, I need that to see with!” Copi protested as he erased one eye. Nothing but a smudge remained.

  
Grant handed me the sketch book. “There, fix it.”

“What, you aren’t going to give her a new one?” I took the sketch book and tried to retrace what I could still see of the old lines.

“I’m terrible at drawing,” Grant said. “That’s why I don’t do it.”

“Well some of us like to have fun once in a while,” I hissed.  
  
“We have, fun, don’t we?”

I looked at Grant, somewhat stunned, but did not detect the slightest hint of sarcasm in his face.

*******

“Why do you wear that shirt?” he demanded as we entered the Great Hall for dinner. I glanced at my watch; we were a bit early and the food hadn’t appeared on the tables yet. “It lets everyone know you’re a Muggleborn. You’ve already been attacked once.”

“Twice,” I corrected. “And I like this shirt.” I glanced down at the faded image of Mario riding atop Yoshi’s back, the ink of the plumber’s enthusiastic grin cracked a bit from repeated washings.

“An obese cartoon workman riding an undersized wingless dragon. Only Muggles.” Grant gave a halfhearted smirk and took his seat at the end of the table. I sat down between him and Terrance, on the end of the Slytherin table with the students who didn’t put on airs of caring about all the Blood Purity bullocks. I toyed with a spoon waiting for dinner and silently marveled at the fact I no longer considered food appearing from nowhere the weirdest part of my life.  
  
“You’d love Mario too if you played his games,” I told Grant, searching for a bit of normality in words that I couldn’t find in the circumstances. “He’s the best.”

“What sort of games are these? Something like chess?” Grant asked as the food appeared. He stabbed a pork chop with his fork and moved it onto his plate.  
  
“Er,” I said, staring for a moment. I didn’t know how to explain video games to someone who didn’t understand the concept of video.

*******

Though it only reinforced my confusion and anxiety about being trained as a witch, I continued to study my Bible every morning when I got up. Perhaps because I’m just stubborn, and perhaps because I was raised with the implicit, often explicit, notion that studying the Bible daily was simply something good people did, like holding open doors for old ladies. As much as I would like to say it gave me guidance, it didn’t. I kept returning to the passages condemning witchcraft and looking for some sort of loophole, some softening of the blow; other than my aunt’s words, I found none.

After the incident in the common room, I usually confined the readings to the dormitory, though. There, the greatest danger was snide commentary from the increasingly-hostile Sypha. To my dismay, she was quickly pulling Emma into her orbit, and was in turn being pulled into the orbit of older girls, a clique which included Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode.   
  
“Why do you even bother with that?” Sypha said. “You look like you’re on the verge of throwing up every time you get done.”  
  
I stammered for an explanation for a moment and finally told her the reason. “I’m supposed to,” I said, looking away.

“Daddy always said Muggleborns were mad,” Sypha said, her voice hovering somewhere between gloating and pity. “I guess he knew what he was talking about.”

Josie gave me a sympathetic smile and then turned to Sypha. “Michelle has to find her own way,” she said. “I don’t believe God would give us these gifts if we weren’t supposed to use them.”

“By that logic,” Emma said, “why the devil did the Lord give us pigs if we aren’t supposed t’eat them?”

I winced. Josie had made a point of avoiding the pork chops the other day, and that was the first time I realized I wasn’t the only religious student in my year. I closed up my Bible and put it back in my bag, then pulled on a robe and headed down to breakfast.

As usual I sat by Grant; Artemis McFly joined me on the other side. For reasons that amused only myself, I had taken to calling her Arty.

“I heard they’re makin’ treacle tarts as a side dish this marnin’,” Arty said.

“Great Scott!” I said. I _was_ pretty fond of treacle tarts, but I couldn’t help think my movie reference had a hint of unintended mockery. Fortunately, it only drew confused stares from everyone else at the table—aside from Terrance, who snickered and shook his head at me.

I shrank back into my seat and waited for breakfast to appear; when it did, it indeed included treacle tarts.

But that minor delight was quickly overshadowed when the windows opened and dozens of owls rushed in carrying the morning mail. I had been hoping for a package for the past few days, and finally my hopes were answered when a tiny grey owl dropped a reply from Amanda on the table in front of me. I pushed my juice aside and greedily opened the package. Only a letter was inside, so I immediately began reading it.

 

_Dear Michelle_

_Sweetie, I’m so sorry to hear about what happened, and on your first day, too. I hope you don’t hate me for sending you to Hogwarts. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment. I certainly can’t come in person. The reason it’s taken me so long to reply… well, brace yourself. I’m in jail. Your parents are apparently fickle folk, because no sooner had I got back to my house then they sent police, claiming I’d kidnapped you and sent you off to join a cult. Naturally without any Muggle documentation I couldn’t prove I’d sent you to a boarding school; I don’t know what I’m going to do. My rather nosy cellmate has been watching me like a proverbial hawk and if you’re reading this I can only assume I found a moment to attach a response to the owl you sent. I hope you’re well now, and know that you’ll be in my thoughts and prayers._  
  
And don’t worry about me. I’m sure the Ministry or Dumbledore will get around to securing my release eventually. It’s just the tedium of waiting I can’t stand.

_Be strong. Love,_

_Amanda_  
  
PS: Snape is totally a git, isn’t he? But remember, he’s one of the good guys, good being a relative term in his case. If worse comes to worse, he won’t let you come to harm.  
  


 

I stared at the letter for a good thirty seconds, my face twisting from shock to near-panic. Grant noticed first and leaned in.   
  
“Michelle, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my aunt,” I said quietly. “She was arrested for—for helping me come to Hogwarts.”  
  
“What!” Granted blurted. “Why?”

“You know what I said about my parents, how they think witches and wizards are evil? They think Amanda is trying to make me evil too. Like she’s trying to drag me down with them.” I felt a sob coming on and forced it down. My eyes began to moisten. “They threw me out of the house, but now I guess they’ve changed their minds. Or maybe they just want to punish Amanda.”

Grant’s eyes darkened, and I saw something in them buried deep, something that terrified me.

He stood up. “We have to go do something. She was trying to help you, and they do this. My gawd, you Muggles and your ridiculous superstitions.”

“It’s not superst—” I tried to correct him.  
  
But Grant ignored me, and was already up and heading across the room towards the table where the professors sat, aiming for the middle with Dumbledore. I muttered some things I hoped nobody heard and followed him, reaching the table as he was rambling through the explanation to the headmaster. Dumbledore, for his part, immediately put an end to his conversation with Professor Lockhart and began listening to Grant with one ear while trying to keep Lockhart from bloviating in the other.

“And that was how I managed to thwart the Queen Vampire’s plot to enslave the children of Budapest—”

“Her aunt was put in jail because she was trying to help Michelle—”

“Grant, I appreciate this and all but I can fight my own battles and so can Am—”

Just then a howler went off at one of the tables behind us, adding to the noise. On cue, Lockhart and Grant both tried to speak over it, while I crossed my arms and contented myself with being drowned out.

But Dumbledore rolled his eyes behind his half-moon glasses, and flicked his wand. Immediately everything in the room fell silent except for Grant, who finished his explanation with a deep breath. I looked all over the Great Hall; everyone was still talking, miming excitedly, but none of the noise was reaching us.

“I think,” Dumbledore said, “that this conversation would be better moved to a more private location.”

*******

Moments later, we stood before the desk in Dumbledore’s office, gawking at the unusual wonders hidden therein—the sword of Gryffindor mounted on the wall, the Sorting Hat on its perch, and dozens of strange magical instruments that I didn’t know the names or functions of cluttering the headmaster’s desk. In the corner sat a cage where a magnificent gold-and-red bird stared at Grant and I curiously.

  
“Is that a Phoenix?” Grant asked, staring at the bird.

“It is indeed,” Dumbledore said, smiling faintly. “A truly wonderful companion, a phoenix is. But on to the matter at hand.”  
  
Dumbledore reached into his desk and pulled out a letter on a short strip of parchment, then a much longer letter with an official-looking seal and an elaborate letterhead.

“Mr. Danesti has brought it to my attention that your aunt was arrested by Muggle authorities for the supposed crime of kidnapping. Of course, I knew this already, as the Ministry has kept me informed of the issue from the start.”  
  
I blinked. He already knew? Then why hadn’t he told me?  
  
“To answer the question you’ve left unspoken,” Dumbledore continued, “I felt it would be best to allow Amanda to inform you herself.”  
  
“You have to get her out!” Grant blurted. “This is a complete miscarriage of justice! Imagine, a witch being forced to stay in a Muggle prison. We should storm the building and hurl curses at them until they let her go. And as for Michelle’s parents—”  
  
“Grant,” Dumbledore warned. “Your concern is admirable, but you’re letting your own experiences cloud your judgment. Any violence over this would be a vast overreaction. First, let me assure you that both I and the ministry have been working on a solution. The Ministry is consulting goblin experts to draft Muggle-proof documentation for Michelle’s attendance here, and Amanda, for her part, is being treated well. She could have easily used a dozen spells to have prevented her arrest or affected her escape. She is there by her own choice.”

“Oh.” Grant blinked, then grabbed the Sorting Hat off its stool, put it on his head, and tipped it towards Dumbledore. “Good show, then.”

“If you thought I’d sort you somewhere else, you can forget it,” the Hat said. “I don’t make mistakes.”

I grimaced at Grant, and he averted his red eyes. It was, at that point, the nearest thing I’d ever gotten to an apology from him.

“I had hoped to deal with this at a more convenient time,” Dumbledore said, “but there is another matter that I must discuss with you, Michelle. It’s an issue involving your parents.”   
  
My guts suddenly felt hollow.

“Because of their decision to turn Amanda over to the authorities, there are voices in the ministry that are pushing to have their memories altered. It’s unusual to Oblivate the legal guardians of a Hogwarts student, but given their actions, the Ministry feels that it would be best.”  
  
“What do you think, Headmaster?” I stared at my toes, half obscured by the strap of my neon-pink sandals.

“Hm…” Dumbledore stroked his beard. When he spoke again, his voice was full of reservation. “It would certainly ease your relations with your parents to remove their memories of the school and of your aunt’s magical heritage. However, it would be wise to remember that the easiest path is often wrought with complications of its own—be they moral or logistical.”  
  
“So you can stop them? The Ministry, I mean.”  
  
Dumbledore smiled. “No, I cannot. But if you and Amanda agreed, you could petition the Ministry to leave their memories as they are. Your safety, after all, is the Ministry’s utmost concern in this matter.” He spoke the last sentence with a twinkled in his eye and a small hint of sarcasm.  
  
“What do you think, Grant?” I asked.

He had walked over to Fawkes’ cage and was stroking the phoenix’s wings through the bars.  
  
“Obliviate the tossers,” he said absently.  
  
“Grant! Hello? My _parents.”_

He shrugged. “From the information given? Still tossers.”

“Language, please,” Dumbledore said quietly.

I closed my eyes and pictured my mum and dad’s faces. I remembered what it was like when they smiled at me. If I let them have their memories erased, I could see that again. I could still live at home in the summer; I wouldn’t be forbidden from visiting Amanda; I could sleep easy at night. But. (There’s always a _but_.) I’d have to lie constantly. I’d have to make up stories and pretend I wasn’t different. It would be suffocating, and, I realized, wrong. If I had to erase their memories to gain their acceptance, then their renewed approval of me would never be genuine.

Most importantly, while the past few days had not cleared up the moral issue for me in the slightest, they had given me an insatiable desire to know how deep the magic in me ran. I was hooked. If the Bible itself wasn’t going to scare me away, nothing would. And I couldn’t be honest with myself while continuing to lie to my parents. _Irony_ , I thought: _it wouldn’t be Christian._

I looked up at the headmaster and shook my head. “No, write them and tell them I don’t want them Oviporated. I’ll write to Amanda and tell her too. I’m not going to spend the next seven years lying to my mum and dad. If I’m going to hell anyway it’s going to be for something I _want_ to do.”  
  
Dumbledore nodded, assured me I probably wasn’t going to hell, and pulled out a blank piece of parchment and began to write.

“You’re mad,” Grant hissed as he approached me. “But I guess that’s why we’re friends.”

Dumbledore dismissed us from his office, and we started back towards the Great Hall, where we had left our books. Silently I prayed that they hadn’t been stolen or defaced by Malfoy and his slimy cohorts.

“We’re friends?” I asked as we checked our bags for stink pellets.

“Yeah, I suppose we are,” Grant said.

*******

The following Monday I received an owl with a note that Amanda had been released. My parents were mad as hell about it, but the documentation the Goblins created said they had signed off on sending me to an exclusive private boarding school in Scotland. Of course, they hadn’t, but the British government didn’t know that.

With that burden off my chest, I began to focus on my studies. I had Herbology three times a week, and though my brief lessons with Amanda gave me a bit of a jump start on the other students, it quickly became one of my least favorite subjects. Plants that could move on their own constantly wriggled free from my grasp, and I usually ended up giving them too much water or not enough plant food.   
  
I fared better in Astronomy, at least by comparison. When most of the students were falling asleep during the midnight studies of the skies, I shrugged and kept plotting stars. The many late-night Mega Man sessions Rupert and I had been through made me battle hardened against sleep. I looked across the Astronomy Tower at Grant in the early morning before our first flying lesson; he sat alone, staring up into the sky with his telescope, his pale skin like a ward that repelled other students. Those that bought into blood purity the most—Sypha, Emma, Artemis’ twin brother Apollo, and Othello Harper—seemed to be the ones most put off by him. I didn’t understand why at the time.

The one student that remained an enigma to everyone, though, was the American boy, Jacinto Neithercut. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was always in an incredibly calm, measured voice, as though nothing could phase him. He used his telescope to map the stars, rarely glancing at his textbook star chart, while the others who managed to stay awake took surreptitious glances at him, wondering to each other how he got so smart.

At our first Flying lesson the next day, I was bored. I already knew the basics from using my _Roc_ at Amanda’s house, so while many of the other students were still trying to get their brooms to jump off the ground, I was whirling through the air and, frankly, acting like a ridiculous show-off.

To my annoyance, Harper blazed by me in the air.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he said, his voice managing to come across more as a taunt than a complement. “If you weren’t a Muggleborn, you could be on the Quidditch team.”

“Mind your own business,” I told him, swooping down to get away. Harper followed me.   
  
“I’m serious. You should try out. I’d love to be proven wrong by one of your kind. I doubt you’ll make it though, since you’ve already ruffled Snape’s feathers by getting Rosier expelled.”

Harper swooped in close, uncomfortably so, even as Madame Hooch began shouting at us to quit showing off and land.

“What? Are you a coward? Afraid of heights? I hear you Muggles don’t have anything that can fly like a broom. You need machines the size of busses with wings like birds to get you off the ground.”

“What of it?” I spat; Harper got even closer, until he was practically leaning over me.  
  
“You think you’re so much better with your manned flights to the moon and all that rubbish, but you can’t do basic things wizards have been doing for a thousand years.”  
  
I dipped down and tried to escape him, but he kept dogging me. I growled in frustration and reached into my robes, pulling out my wand.  
  
“Flipendo!” I shouted; the Knockback Jinx blasted Harper away, his broom spinning wildly until he managed to slam on the braking charm. Unfortunately, my perennial inability to maintain control of a broom with one hand caught up with me and I tumbled into a barrel roll, twisting end-over-end until I fell from the broom. I reached up and grabbed it tightly with both hands, dropping my wand in the process. My eyes followed it as it fell to the ground, blurring as they shifted focus. I finally realized how high up I was and why Madame Hooch had been shouting at us. I was easily thirty metres in the air, and dangling, held up my admittedly-limited upper body strength. My broom was heading downward, but there was no way I could hold on until it reached the ground.

I tried to pull the broom down to me, but the charms on the old school brooms being antiquated as they were, the effect was more like trying to pull myself up.   
  
Finally the pain in my wrists and fingers got the better of me, and one hand slipped, then the other, and I began to fall, the organs inside me protesting and wanting to go up, wanting more than anything not to slam into the ground. With said ground fast approaching, I extended my hands and shouted the Knockback Charm incantation again; instead of a controlled blast, however, my fingers tingled and numbed, and produced an explosive burst that blasted me back up, another ten meters. The impact rattled me and I may have blacked out for a second; the next thing I remember was looking up toward the sky, feeling myself falling away from it.

  
I heard Madame Hooch swooping towards me on a broom, but her voice seemed so far away. I didn’t think she’d make it.

Then I heard the other Slytherins screaming, gasping. And a voice.

_“SPONGIFY!”_

I suddenly slammed hard into something soft, like a massive stunt cushion for a film shoot, bouncing up out of an impression. I landed again on the soft surface, and opened my eyes, which I realized once again I’d forced tightly shut.  
  
The cushion was, to my astonishment, just the grass I’d seen coming up at me.  
  
I rolled over and saw Jacinto putting his wand back in his robes. He tossed a polite smile my way and then walked back towards the other Slytherins, acting as nonchalant as I’d ever seen him.

Othello and Madam Hooch soon landed, the latter berating the former for antagonizing me.

“Coplin!” she shouted, glancing at Jacinto, at whom all the other Slytherins were staring. “Coplin, are you okay?”  
  
“I’m, I’m fine,” I said. “Jacinto made the ground all spongy.”

“Clever boy,” Said Madame Hooch quietly, to herself. “More than I could say about _some_ students.” She grabbed Harper by the arm and jerked him close to her. She grabbed my arm as well and pulled me to my feet.  
  
“Let go of me,” Harper whined. I felt like saying the same thing, but bit my tongue.  
  
“You two are both getting a detention,” she said. “And I should think yours will be worse, Coplin.” Her gaze was severe. “You should know better than to use a jinx like that on a student riding a broom no matter how annoying he is. That was reckless and it could have gotten the both of you killed.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, glancing away.  
  
“You can tell Professor Snape that when you see him.”

*******

“Arrogant taunting,” Snape droned, walking back and forth in front of his blackboard. He looked like he was trying to make his cloak billow, but it kept getting caught on protruding knobs and handles, ruining the intended effect. “Showing-off preternatural broom skills. Inappropriate use of defensive spells. All these are behaviours I would expect from a _Gryffindor_.” He hissed the last word with the force of years of bitterness. I wondered if the spirit of Godric Gryffindor had kicked his puppy as a child.

“Professor, I didn’t use a spell on her,” Harper protested.  
  
“Silence,” said Snape. “You will speak when I ask you a question, not until then. Now, seeing as I have a stack of essays that I must subject myself to in a mostly-futile effort to assign an objective measure to their alarming paucity of merit, I’ve elected to allow Mister Filch to handle your punishment.  
  
Behind us, the hideous and unpleasant caretaker limped into the room sneering, his equally mean cat rubbing against his legs.

“You’ll be cleaning the suits of armour on the second floor,” Filch said, his bulgy eyes scanning me and Harper. “No magic, neither.”

We quickly reached the second floor and got to work, Filch staring over our shoulders the whole time. We were given a solution that polished the suits right up, and I suspect that it was alchemy rather than chemistry that gave the liquid its potency. After a tedious hour, we were almost finished.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Filch said. “Mrs. Norris, watch them and make sure they keep at it.”   
  
The cat gave us a spiteful hiss, while Filch ducked into the nearby men’s lavatory. We continued cleaning the armour under the watchful eye of the cat from hell, Harper muttering curses the whole time. I just wanted to get it over with, but his sloppy cleaning abilities meant I had to go back over the statues he’d already ‘finished’ to make sure he didn’t miss anything.   
  
“Thank you so much,” the suit I was currently working on said. “That boy clearly has no idea how to properly apply Shining Solution.”

Just about the time I was wondering what Filch could possibly doing in lavatory for so long, I heard footsteps down the corridor and turned to see a tiny figure walking out of the girl’s lavatory, hood pulled tightly over the head. I thought, from the way the figure walked that it was one of the smaller Gryffindor boys being cheeky, but I soon saw a few strands of long red hair dangling from inside the hood. I recognized the girl as Ron Weasley’s sister.

 _What was her name,_ I thought. _Holly? Ginger? Guinea?_   “No, Ginevra, that was it. Ginny.”

“What are you muttering about?” Harper said, glancing up from his cleaning.

I motioned my head towards Ginny Weasley. “She’s pretty far away from her dorm this late.”

“What of it?”

  
I threw my cloth down and walked over to her.  
  
“Ginny? Ginny, hey.”  
  
She looked up with a start.

“Oh,” she said in a strangely polite voice. “I didn’t notice you.”  
  
“What are you doing outside the Gryffindor Tower this late?” I glanced back at Harper and Mrs. Norris, the latter hissing and snarling at me. Stupid cat. I looked back at Ginny. “You could get in trouble, Filch just went into that lou there.”  
  
“Yes,” Ginny said. “I should get back to my common room. But what concern is it of yours if a Gryffindor gets in trouble?”

“You seem nice. Filch isn’t,” I said. Mrs. Norris made an especially nasty noise.

Ginny Weasley gave me the creepeiest smile, and nodded, then indicated Harper. “Who is that?”  
  
“Othello Harper. We got into a fight in Flying and we’re doing a detention.”  
  
“Harper?” Ginny said. “His father was a Slytherin was he not?”  
  
I shrugged. “I guess. We’re Slytherins too, Ginny. We have potions together, remember?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I just forgot. Silly me. I was just surprised that they let a Muggleborn witch into Slytherin.”  
  
My eyes widened, and I looked away. “You’re all alike,” I spat. “Ruddy purebloods.”

“Tell me,” Ginny said. “If you ever encountered _You-Know-Who_ how would you react?”

“Isn’t he dead?” I asked.  
  
“Well, so they say.” Ginny gave the creepy smile again. “But Harry Potter supposedly faced him last year. What if he returns? What if he comes back? What would you do then?”

I looked down at my feet again. “I’d probably run,” I admitted.

“Smart move,” Ginny said. “But… hopefully that will never happen.”  
  
She moved past me and eventually vanished up a flight of stairs. I finally paid heed to Mrs. Norris insistent hissing and went back to work cleaning a suit of armor, shortly before Filch came back out of the bathroom.

“That was strange,” I said to Harper.

“What’s strange about it?”

“I just thought Ginny Weasley was different, that she didn’t buy into all this blood purity rubbish.”

“Well I guess statistically at least one of the Weasleys would eventually wise-up,” Harper crowed.

“Quit yer gabbin’ and finish up,” Filch spat. Mrs. Norris made a growl that sounded like _yeah!_

As I went back over a stain on one of the legs that Harper missed, I ‘accidentally’ stuck a knuckle into his ribs and didn’t bother apologizing.


	11. A Letter Home and a Daft Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I write a letter home and conceive of something ludicrous.

By the time we were finished cleaning the suits of armor, I was exhausted and walked back to the Slytherin common room at a skrewt’s pace. Harper, as he hadn’t actually done much of the work, practically ran most of the way, and I soon lost sight of him. I also suspect that he simply didn’t want to be around me any longer than he had to, and the feeling, frankly, was mutual. I reached the patch of damp wall and muttered ‘Boudicca’—the wall slid aside and I lumbered in like a zombie. Halfway down the stairs, I realized I wasn’t alone.

The pair of dark-trousered legs moved slightly; the rest of the figure was obscured by the high back of the dark green easy chair. I almost missed it entirely because it was cast in silhouette by the fireplace, which I was surprised to see was still lit.

I heard the sound of a page turning, and I crept over to the chair to see who it was. I must have been making more noise than I thought, because I heard the book close when I was within a couple metres.

The broad jaw of Jacinto Neithercut poked out from behind the chair, his face and the strawberry-blond hair that framed both cast in partial shadow by the fire behind him.

“Hello, Mich…Coplin.” he said, trying to pass off the first half of my name as ‘miss’. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that: he felt comfortable addressing me by my first name, but didn't want me to know he did? Jacinto nodded down at his book. “Just doing some late reading.”

“Hi, Jacinto,” I said, suddenly blushing. Jacinto was not bad looking, but he did not have the sort of face I found appealing in a boy. The blush came more from the fact that he had saved me from a painful array of dislocations. “I didn’t know it was you.”

I took a step closer, failing miserably at being casual about it, and tilted my head sideways a bit. The spine of the book, which Jacinto now clutched to his chest, read: **_1984_ – GEORGE ORWELL**.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” I said after a moment. “Where did you learn that Spongify spell?”

“My mother,” he said with a flicker of a frown. “She has dozens of spell books from her days at Charmbridge stuck on her shelves. I took to reading them in my spare time. I always thought I’d be going into Treadstone Academy myself. It’s in New York. That… didn’t pan out.”

“Well Hogwarts isn’t so bad, is it?” I wasn’t sure if I believed that myself. “Lucky for me your mum is such a pack-rat.”  
  
Jacinto nodded. “Take care,” he said, and went back to reading. I stood there for a moment, feeling awkward, as though I should say something else, but I could think of nothing. I backed away slowly and then turned and shuffled towards the girl’s dorm.

*******

The next week saw Amanda and me shooting letters back and forth, mine telling of what I had learned and of all the Death Eaters’ children I pissed off. Amanda’s mostly chronicled my parents repeated demands that Amanda tell the truth and go back to jail for what she had done. Amanda noted, however, that they never once demanded that she send me back home.

_They’re heartbroken, Michelle, but I can see that they’re also scared. They think I’ve poisoned you against them. And honestly, I think they’re scared of how they’ll react when you return. I’m no Legimens, but I can only guess they’re equally afraid they’ll come to hate you as they are of you hating them. Your mother starts to threaten punishments for you and then trails off, unable to complete the thought. And I assure you they have no trouble completing their thoughts when it comes to threats against me._

_It might do a lot of good if you write to them yourself. I’ve about exhausted my capacity to placate._  
  
Be safe.

_-Amanda_

 

So I sat down at a table in my dorm one evening while all the other girls in my year were in the common room, and began writing. I used up two pieces of parchment on false starts that I eventually threw away, and then started writing on some muggle stationery that Amanda had sent me.

 

_Dear Mum and Dad_

_How are you? Well that’s a dumb question I guess. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. Amanda said I should write you and assure you I was okay, So… here I am. Writing you, and I am okay. These past few weeks have been hectic. I’m learning a lot. Not just… you know… magic and stuff. I’m learning a lot about myself, too, I guess. I’ve made a new friend called Grant. He’s weird, but he can be pretty cool. He’s an albino and the other students call him The Nasty when they think I can’t hear them. I feel sorry for him sometimes, which is why I guess I keep hanging out with him even though he can be a little rude. _

_There’s another boy here who is sweet. His name is Endy. But he’s in another House—Hogwarts is divided into houses like in a public boarding school. So I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like. He grins a lot and talks as though he thinks everyone is an audience and he is a performer. And he’s also brilliant at maths and potions. I…_

_I… er…_  
  
I’m still reading my Bible and I still pray and stuff. I know you think all sorts of horrible things must be going on, but it really isn’t like that. There are other religious students here too. The girl in the bed next to mine in the dorm is Jewish, even. And whatever you think, I’m not suddenly okay with all this. I still worry about whether I made the right choice. Also, it was  my choice, not Amanda’s. Please don’t blame her. I can’t learn to hate as quickly as you do, but maybe someday.

_I still love you both and want to make you proud.  
Michelle_

The drafts I tossed into the bin had mentioned all sorts of nasty details about Blood Prejudice and Daniel Rosier making a game of tossing me around, but I left those out in the end because I didn’t want to scare them more than they already were. Reading it again today, I wonder if calling my parents quick to hate was something of a backhanded compliment, something meant to be a thorn on their conscience. But I can’t remember. In some people, hate is a virtue. Not necessarily hatred of people, but hatred of their religion, their background, their music or games. And I grew up in a home where hatred of the Otherness of people was valorized. “Love the sinner, hate the sin,” they told me. But when you get used to hating, it is so hard to hate just a little. It’s easier to hate a lot.

*******

Grant’s birthday fell on 21 September and I had sent off for Amanda to buy him a present and I’d pay her back by working in her greenhouses over the summer. She told me not to worry about it, and sent in a box of chocolate frogs. I kind of felt embarrassed as I handed him the package, since it was such an impersonal gift. But I had little since of what Grant liked to do for fun beyond playing Wizards’ Chess against students twice his size and stalking people with his Chamelomancy.

“Chocolate Frogs?” He said staring at them.   
  
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking away. “I couldn’t think of anything to suggest—”

“Sorry?” he blurted. “Michelle, this is the best birthday present I’ve ever got. Last year my sister Sophitia gave me a manticore pup.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It had rabies,” Grant said, clutching a scar on his right hand and shuddering.

Grant took out a frog and wolfed it down, then stuffed the box into the truck at the foot of his bed. I noticed that ‘PROPERTY OF THE NASTY’ had been scribbled onto it in Permo-spell Ink.

“ _Cryopagos_ ,” he said, twirling his wand in a circular motion. I felt a sudden chill from the trunk as it cooled off. Grant shut the lid and locked it. He looked up at me. “Thanks.”

His eyes were softer than usual, as if the storm of emotion he usually hid behind them had calmed somewhat.

“You’ve mentioned your sisters being horrible before,” I said, sitting down on Harper’s trunk. I honestly didn’t care what _he_ thought of it. “Why do they get away with all this stuff?”

Grant sat down on his own trunk and sighed. “They’re not freaks,” he said, pointing to his stark white skin. “Mum and Dad aren’t ashamed of them the way they are of me, so it’s only natural that basically anything they do to me goes unpunished.”

“That’s horrible,” I said. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk bad about my parents when yours don’t even seem to care about you.”  
  
“Like yours care about you,” he spat.

“That’s not true!” I said. “I know they’ve done some… bad things, but it’s not because they don’t care about me.”  
  
“They hate you for being a witch. How is that any different than my parents hating me?”  
  
“You didn’t choose to be an albino,” I said, pounding a fist on the trunk.

“You didn’t choose to have magic,” Grant shot back.   
  
“No, but I chose to come here.” I looked away. I honestly felt that no other choice could possibly keep me from going mad, but it was still, technically a choice. I still could have chosen insanity over mortal sin. I stared at grant for a moment. “It also sounds like your parents don’t care what happens to you. That’s completely the opposite of mine. They’re afraid _for me_.”  
  
“ _For_ you?” Grant said, leaning forward. “They think something bad is happening to you?”  
  
“That I’m being deceived by Amanda and all the professors,” I said quietly. “They’re terrified that God is going to disown me, or maybe that I’ve turned my back on God. They think that if I don’t change my ways and see the light, then I’ll be damned to hell. Maybe I won’t, but the idea of me coming to harm must be eating them up inside.”

“In that case,” Grant said, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” I asked.

“Obliviating them.” Grant stood up and took a step over to me. “If they really care about you, and you being here causes them pain, then you did the right thing by not having their memories erased. They should suffer like they’ve made you suffer.”  
  
The word _suffer_ echoed in my mind. _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live._ Suffer. Maybe the reason they killed off witches or suspected-witches back then was because the thought of their sons and daughters being caught up in evil rituals was too much for them to bear. So much pain that they’d rather see them die than go on living in sin.   
  
Thou shalt not suffer.   
  
Suddenly, I wondered if what I was doing was wrong not because the magic itself was evil, but because it was causing so much harm to my parents. I could only hope my letter had helped them out, but I still had no reply, and Amanda hadn’t mentioned them in the letter she included with Grant’s chocolates.

I stood up, and started to walk out of the dorm. “You’re still wrong, Grant,” I said. “I don’t want to make my parents suffer. I want them to change their minds.”  
  
“Sometimes pain is the only way things get done,” Grant said.

As I walked out of the boy’s dorm, Harper walked in. “What, the Mudblood and the Nasty sharing some alone time? How typical, trash hanging out with trash.”  
  
I punched him in the face before I knew what I was doing. Harper didn’t say anything to me for three days.  
  
Maybe Grant was on to something with that pain thing _._

 

*******

No reply came from my parents, but Amanda did mention in one of her notes that they’d received my letter. When the little owl that delivered it kept waiting around for a tip, my dad had swatted it out of the window with a broom, and the bird left its retaliation on his car windshield. She said that they’d calmed down some, but they still had no kind words for her.

October went by with alarming speed; in our classes, Flitwick apologized multiple times when he realized he’d started going over charms he’d already covered, a symptom of having changed his curriculum to emphasize spells that ‘a trio of illustrious students’ had found useful the previous year. I overheard a conversation between Billy Watson and some older boys in which Draco Malfoy muttered loudly that it was Harry Potter’s adventures the previous year that got the curriculum changed. He sneered the word _adventures_ and went on to make it clear where he thought Potter could shove his hero complex. I was mostly surprised that Draco Malfoy knew what a hero complex was.

And that brings us to Halloween. I barely recall the feast that night, only what happened after it as dozens of us poured out of the Great Hall into the corridor. The quiet that started at the front of the throng and spread to the back stopped me in my tracks; Grant kept talking even after I was staring transfixed. I tried to slip through the crowd and managed to get to the front in time to hear Malfoy shouting: “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

Then I saw the message scribbled on the wall in red, the tiny form dangling below, and Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley standing in a puddle of water below it. At first I thought that it was about time someone gave that cat what was coming to her, but then Filch and a group of professors surrounded the three Gryffindors and I heard Filch’s pathetic lament. I realized then that this wasn’t some cheap prank or first year spell.  
  
_They killed the cat!_ I thought. _Harry Potter killed Filch’s cat._

*******

By the time I got back to the common room, I had been disabused of the notion that Potter murdered the cat. The message, which I hadn’t been able to make out, implicated a nameless figure known only as the Heir of Slytherin, someone with the supposed legendary power to open the Chamber of Secrets.

“What’s in the Chamber,” I asked quietly, transfixed on Sypha’s big blue eyes.

“Well, Secrets, of course,” she said.

“But what Secrets?” Artemis insisted.  
  
“If we knew that, it would be the Chamber of... Stuff We Know About,” Sypha said, tossing a smirk towards her. “They say Salazar Slytherin left a hideous artifact of his powers behind that would eventually be used to purge the school of Muggleborns.”  
  
“That’s bollocks,” I said. “They’d never allow that. Dumbledore would get rid of something like that.”

“If he could find it,” Emma chimed. “There are so many secret passages and hidden rooms in this castle that you could hide a herd of unicorns.”

“Unicorns don’t travel in herds,” Sypha said in manner calculated to make Emma feel stupid.  
  
“I know that!” Emma hissed back. “I just mean, if they did.”

At that point I turned from the conversation and flopped open my sketchbook. I drew sketches of cats playing in a field and then threw Mario in for good measure, focusing all my mental energies into the drawing so as to forget the events that had transpired. The sketch-kitties began playing with each other, while Mario ran around jumping and whooping. I drew a few swirls that were supposed to represent a ball of yarn for the cats to play with and they began tossing it back and forth across the page. I turned the page in my sketchbook and drew something else, a hasty sketch of the potions classroom, complete with Ginny, Apollo, and Artemis periodically exploding their cauldrons only for Snape to flick his wand out. A line shot up from his mouth and scribbled REPARO, causing the graphite explosion on the page to reassemble into a cauldron.

I stared at sketch Ginny, and felt synapses firing in my brain.  
  
“She was acting funny, wasn’t she?” came my own voice, but not out of my mouth. I turned several pages back to find Copi, reclining on a crudely-drawn easy-chair that I had given her. She toyed with an equally sketchy Gameboy that made little bleeps and bloops.

“Yeah, she was. She never acted like that in class.” I thought back to my late night encounter. It was fresh in my mind because it was the last time I’d seen Mrs. Norris—or at least given her any thought—until tonight.

“She sounded like she was talking Pureblood nonsense,” Copi said. “And now we have someone writing threats to purebloods on the walls.”  
  
“Ginny can’t be the Heir of Slytherin,” I said. I didn’t know why exactly I thought that, but it didn’t add up, it was too illogical. She wasn’t even IN Slytherin.

“No, you’re missing the point,” Copi said, waving her finger at me. “If Slytherin has an heir, he’s probably really powerful, right?"

(At this point, I heard Sypha cattily telling Emma that I was ‘talking to that sketch again.’ I tried to ignore her.)

“Yeah,” I said. “You think maybe Ginny is being manipulated or controlled?”  
  
“It would explain why she was so far away from her dorm that night, and why she suddenly turned into Malfoy Reds With Menthol.”

“Is there a spell that can do that?” I wondered aloud.

"Maybe,” said Copi. “You know who you should ask.”

“Neithercut?” I thought a moment. If he had some of his mum’s uni spell books here, then I could research information about mind control spells or potions.   
  
“What about Neithercut?” Josie said from the bed beside mine. She settled down on the mattress in her green pajamas and slipped under the comforter. “You think he’s cute?”  
  
“Oh, _hell_ no!” Copi and I blurted at once. We both blushed.

“He’s not my type either,” Josie said. She turned over and sank her head into her pillow.  
  
I looked back at Copi and nodded, at this point sure we were both thinking the same thing. I left her page facing up and put the sketchbook in my nylon bag, then lay back and began to pray. I was, really, deeply afraid for the first time since I’d learned the Knockback Jinx, and I begged God that nobody else would come to harm. It wasn’t until later that I realized that this was the first time I felt a sense of camaraderie with the rest of the school, as though we were all on the same team. Well, no, not all of us—those like Rosier and Timothy Shepherd, who actively tormented other students. And Draco Malfoy, who gleefully wished death upon me and Terrance and every student who came from a Muggle family.  
  
But the rest of us? We didn’t deserve this. _God, send someone to stop this Heir of Slytherin,_ I thought. Even as I did so, I was terrified God’s answer would be, _I’m sending **you**._

Narcissist? Me? Perish the thought.

 

*******

Try as I might, I rarely found Jacinto in a position where I could talk to him in confidence; we were in classes together, but he and I never sat close by. In the common room he was often surrounded by other students, sometimes including Draco Malfoy, Tim Shepherd, or Sypha and her growing circle of mean girls, and I grew to worry that he would begin to pick up Blood Prejudice osmotically. Though, I never heard or saw him behaving badly to Muggleborns. Close to nobody, he got on well enough with everyone… on the few occasions where he was forced to interact with us.   
  
I tried to secure him as a Potions partner one afternoon, but before I could blink a line of girls (and Collin Creevey, who might as well have been a girl) formed next to him, trying to claim him as her partner.

  
I had about given up until late one night in Astronomy; as I observed the skies, I heard movement and felt the warmth of a body appear on the bench next to me. I thought it was Grant, but when he leaned forward, I saw the deep tan of Jacinto’s hands. I jumped so suddenly I nearly fell off the bench. When I finally managed to regain my balance, I straightened my robes and tried to will the redness out of my face.  
  
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said dryly. “I noticed you’ve been trying to get near me for the past few days. What’s up?”  
  
I stared at him for a moment, then said, “How did you know—did Grant mention—”

“Danesti didn’t say anything,” he said; his voice was so low I’d almost say it was a whisper or a growl, but the former implies that it was secretive and the latter that it was harsh. It was neither, just… low. Calm. Casual, even. “I pay attention to my surroundings.”

“I see.” I stared at my sandals as I usually did when I wanted to avoid someone’s eyes. It was getting too cold to wear them to Astronomy classes. I’d have to retire them and put on my sneakers soon.

“You said your mum still had some university books left over. I was wondering if you could let me borrow them for some research I wanted to do. On the side.”  
  
“Research? Hm.” There was a flicker of a smile. “What kind of research?”  
  
“Er…”

“You’d rather not say? Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t actually have any of my mother’s books here at Hogwarts.”  
  
“Oh,” I said. My crest, she was fallen. “I was hoping to look up information about mind control magic, to be honest. A girl I know was acting weird and I wonder if—”

I left the thought unfinished as Jacinto closed his eyes. “My mom definitely could help you there,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “But there is really only one mind control spell worth using—the Imperius Curse. This is something you would have learned from your parents if they were our kind.”

“You don’t look down on them for that.” A warning more than a question.

“No. I’m fascinated by Muggles to be honest. But back on topic, this Imperius thing is one of the two curses forbidden by the American Wizarding Bureau. It puts the victim under the complete control of the user and forces them to do anything the user wants.”  
  
“I heard there were three Unforgivable Curses,” I said.

“In the UK, yeah,” Jacinto said. “But you know how we are across the pond. The Killing Curse isn’t forbidden in America. As they say: _wands don’t kill people, people kill people_.”

I had never heard that permutation before, but it seemed reasonable…if somewhat fatalistic…to me.

“And the third curse?”  
  
“It couldn’t be used to control anyone. Well, at least not subtly. I don’t want to say any more about it, though,” Jacinto said. “It’s kind of a grim spell. Take care.”

  
He returned to the opposite side of the Tower and began packing up his belongings. I stared off into the night sky without my telescope, half-did the rest of my assignment, and then packed up as well. If this Imperius Curse was as powerful as Jacinto implied, what could I do about it?   
  
My only option was to catch the Heir of Slytherin unawares and somehow take him down before he could act. For some reason this thought deeply unnerved me.

*******

That night I had another dream like the one I had on the train, except instead of a horned red devil, the beast that towered over me was a bearded scaly monster with fangs that dripped acidic poison onto the ground in front of me. It leaned in close, declaring itself the Heir of Slytherin, and then struck, like a snake.  
  
I startled awake, my mind certain of one fact, one sentence running through my head over and over again: _Jacinto Neithercut is the Heir of Slytherin._


	12. A Theory Worth Exploring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I watch a game of Quidditch.

The following day in History of Magic, Professor Binns repeated the legend about the Chamber of Secrets, but went on to dismiss it with a prejudice.

“It’s a myth, a complete absurdity,” he said, waving his translucent arm. “As I told the second years earlier today, the castle has been searched and nobody—not even Dumbledore—has found any sign that a chamber of secrets exists. The charms it would take to conceal such a thing so thoroughly would require an enormous amount of power and skill.”

Binns’ eyes flicked to the side, and I looked in time to see Jacinto lowering his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Neithercut?”

“Could it not be that the professors, past and present, have been looking in the wrong places? There is a lot more to Hogwarts’ grounds than just the castle.”

“You have a valid point,” Binns said, “but the fact remains that no supposed Chamber has ever been found.”

Billy Watson, a short-haired boy who sat near the front of the class, raised his hand and spoke before Binns acknowledged him. “What about the Heir of Slytherin?”

“Slytherin has no living Heir,” Binns said. “The Founder’s bloodline died out a long time ago. Now if we’ve had enough diversion, it would do us all good to return to attested facts and leave these absurd legends lie where they may.”  
  
Staring at the ghostly professor, I silently wondered if he might have a non-living heir. My mind was throwing possibility after possibility up to be wrestled around, but my brain kept returning to the smooth-talking American boy. He seemed so confident—even mocking. “‘Maybe the Professors have been looking in the wrong places,’” I sneered as the bell rang. “You’d be the one to ask, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d be the one to ask what?” came a voice from behind me. I started, but turned to find that it was Grant joining me as we left Binns’ classroom, not Jacinto. Their voices were not similar; I was just growing paranoid from my own suspicion. I gave shifty glances to the other Slytherins to keep Grant from his persistent questions, until finally there was enough distance between us and everyone else that Grant and I could talk privately.

“I think it’s Jacinto,” I said breathlessly, too quickly.

Grant blinked as if he hadn’t understood me, then looked around. “I don’t see him, I think he’s already gone down to lunch.”  
  
“No,” I said tersely. “I think Jacinto has something to do with Ginevra Weasley acting oddly, and I think he has something to do with the attack on that cat and the writing.”

Grant stared at me, and then snickered. “You think what?”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“You’re seriously jumping to conclusions,” Grant said. “What could possibly make you think that? I mean the bloke saved your life.”  
  
I grimaced. I couldn’t deny that—if not my life, Jacinto had certainly saved me from an array of fractures. But the utter calm he projected, the friendly smile he put on whenever I passed him in a corridor or caught his eye in the common room—it felt hollow, false, as if it were a glamour behind which a hideous beast hid, awaiting its prey.

“I just don’t buy his American Golden Boy routine. It’s bollocks.”

“Of course it’s bollocks,” Grant said. “Everyone in Slytherin puts on a false face, except maybe you. Probably even you, sometimes. That doesn’t mean he’s some sort of killer. What has you so convinced?”

“The night I saw Ginny sneaking around, he was up and about when I came back into the Common Room. It was late, and he was the only one in there.”  
  
“Michelle, Jacinto stays up late every night. He barely sleeps.”  
  
I glared. “Well that’s odd, isn’t it? Maybe he has some special power from being Slytherin’s Heir. He doesn’t need sleep like us mortals.”  
  
“You don’t really believe this, do you?” Grant said. He rubbed his head with a couple fingers as if trying to massage his brain. “You’re being mad, Michelle. You’re so terrified because of your heritage that you’re trying to project it all onto someone who makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“You told me fear was a good thing,” I said.

“But it’s a slippery thing to hold on to, and sooner or later it has you behaving like an idiot.”  
  
I glared at him. “Why are you so keen on defending him?” Grant had sped up and I sped up too to match his pace. “What has he done for you—I’m the one whose life he saved.”  
  
“He’s—he saved your life, and you’re my friend so—”

My eyes narrowed. “That’s not it,” I barked.  
  
“Fine,” said Grant, stopping dead. I stopped too. “Here it is: Jacinto is the only boy in my dorm who doesn’t insult me. I’ve never once heard ‘Freak’ or ‘The Nasty’ from him. He doesn’t rattle on about Blood Purity or laugh about the failings of Muggles like McFly and Harper, and he doesn’t sit there and nod along in agreement like that prat Watson. He’s smarter than all of them put together.”  
  
I stepped back and looked at the floor. “Okay,” I said. “I get that—”

“No you don’t,” Grant said. “I know you’ve not had much of a picnic since you started coming here, but every day for the past eleven years I’ve had to cope with sisters, parents, practically every bloody person I meet treating me like I’m less than human. You think people look down on you for being a Muggleborn?”  
  
“Grant—”

“Try having them look down on you for being the big flashing poster boy for why Blood Purity is rubbish.” He held up a finger to his face pointing to his skin, to the sickly whiteness of it. “Try being the one bad hand dealt to a pair of gamblers who are husband and wife and first cousins at the same time, and everyone _knowing_ that’s the case and being too sodding caught up in it to admit the obvious—so dependent on their rotten ideas that they just hate their son instead of changing their minds.”

“Grant, I didn’t know.” I hugged my books closer to my chest and shuddered. Suddenly a lot of things made more sense. “You never told me that your—”

“Well it’s not something anyone wants to talk about,” he said, continuing towards the Great Hall. “Least of all me.”

*******

 

Saturday morning, I wrote Amanda a letter, and mentioned the book _1984_ that I’d seen Jacinto reading. Just as I put it in its tube, I heard Copi say something from within my sketchbook. I opened it to her page.  
  
“Huh?”

“Aren’t you going to the Quidditch game?” she asked, innocently.

I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want to go to the Quidditch game because I didn’t feel right cheering for my own House, knowing how the team was full of big, stupid thugs who were mostly prejudiced—and worse, good friends with Malfoy ever since he’d bought a Seekership with a set of fancy racing brooms.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Copi said. “You can sit with the Ravenclaws. Maybe _Endy_ will be there.”  
  
“Oh, that’s just not fair,” I muttered. “You can’t play the Endy card.”

“I can and I did,” Copi said. “Come on, you’ve never watched a Quidditch match before.”  
  
“Fine, fine,” I said, pushing away from the little writing table in the dormitory. I put the tube with my letter for Amanda in my jeans pocket and pulled on a pair of robes with no emblem or colors identifying me as a Slytherin. I found the Common Room deserted except for Ariana Davis, who was doing homework on a low green sofa. She glanced up at me, saw who I was, and looked away.

Outside the Common Room I found Grant returning from breakfast, finally, and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, we’re going to the Quidditch game,” I said.

“What? Michelle I don’t want to—”  
  
“We’re going,” I growled.

Grant winced. “Okay, but why the sudden interest in Quidditch? And why do you need to drag me along?”

I think my face flushed red; I know, at least, that it got extremely hot all of a sudden.

“I wanted to see Endy,” I told him.

“Why do you need me to help you chase boys?” Grant growled as I dragged him up across the covered bridge and around towards the Pitch.

“B’cuz,” I said. “I want emotional support if I make a fool of myself.”  
  
“And you think I’m the best wizard for _that_ job?”

I forced myself not to admit that he had a point on that last bit; we reached the stadium soon after and found a couple of seats in the Ravenclaw section. I could see Endymion down near the front, cheering for Gryffindor, and scooted closer to him laterally every time someone got up off the bench I was on. Grant, for his part, ignored me and watched the game. By the time I took my focus off Endy (who obviously didn’t know I was there), it had started to rain. And, I noticed, there was something of a commotion over the match. I studied the whirling brooms and Quidditch balls, trying to discern what was so interesting.

“Do you know what’s happening?” I whispered to Grant.  
  
He frowned. “My eyesight’s not the best, but I think it has something to do with Potter.”

“No joke! That bludger has gone mad,” said John Edgecomb’s sister Marietta. “It’s trying to kill him.”  
  
“Why would a bludger do that?” I said dismissively. But I followed Potter’s movements, and sure enough they were matched almost one-to-one by the little black ball. Several times, beaters hit the thing away from him, but it turned in mid air and kept arcing at him again.

“Should we do something?” My question was directed at Grant, but Marietta answered.  
  
“What do you two care, you’re Slytherins, aren’t you? If Potter’s out of the game, it’s in the bag for you.” She gasped at a near miss in which Potter was nearly smashed in the face. “Why are you even sitting here?”

“You know how welcome us Mudbloods are in Slytherin,” I said sardonically. I didn’t want to give the real reason lest it travel from Marietta to her brother, who one nearly needed a Crowbar Jinx to separate from Endy’s side. Then I winced as I felt God’s finger hovering over the Smite Button, for my lie.

Back on the pitch, Malfoy sat by the Snitch without trying to grab it while Harry stopped dead for a moment and let the bludger hit him in the right arm. I could hear—or at least imagined I could hear—the bone snap from all the way up in the stands. He seemed to half-lunge, half-fall off his broom, holding onto it with his legs only, and reach out for the little winged ball. But that alerted Malfoy to the presence of the Snitch. The two of them dived into the wooden beams under the stands, and I could hear the mad bludger breaking beams as it chased them. Then Malfoy was hurled from beneath, followed by Potter.

But Potter had the Snitch.

The Gryffindors—as well as the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs—erupted into a round of cheering, while Grant muttered, “Woo-hoo, a pointless victory in a pointless game. Three cheers and all that rot.”  
  
The rest of the Gryffindor team, along with Collin Creevey —recognizable by his massive camera—and a few others ran onto the field. The Rogue bludger came in for another swipe at Harry, but exploded from a spell cast by a girl I assumed to be Potter’s friend Hermione Granger.  
  
The worst part, though, came moments later, when Captain Vainglory cast a spell that removed all the bones in Harry’s arm. I stared as his limb flopped around like a big fleshy piece of toffee, and felt ill. I climbed the stands to the top and leaned over it as a precaution against my nausea—and then goggled when I saw someone familiar emerging from a patch of woods—not the Forbidden Forrest, but a smaller grove north of the Pitch. I couldn’t quite make him out through the rain, but I instantly suspected who it was.  
  
“Jacinto?” I muttered.

I reached into my pocket and accosted a random Ravenclaw boy. “I’ll give you a galleon for that spyglass,” I told him.

He goggled, and handed me the tiny telescope; I handed him the coin, then ran back up to the top to look through my new spyglass. Sure enough, it was Jacinto, dressed in a pair of work boots and a thick black cloak. I wiped the rain out of my face and exhaled a misty breath.

“What are you doing up there?” I whispered. His words from just days before came to my mind: _What if they’re just looking in the wrong place?_

*******

 As the students began filing out of the stadium after the match was over, I pulled Grant aside.  
  
“I saw Jacinto,” I said.  
  
“Saw him?” Grant eyed me, puzzled. “Where?”

I pointed at the strip of forest along the northern wall. “He was coming from that way. Remember what he said the other day about the Hogwarts grounds being more than just the castle? Maybe it’s hidden in those woods.”  
  
“What’s hidden in those woods?”

“The Chamber of Secrets!” I said, glaring at him. “Come on, let’s find out.”

“You’re still on this?” He let out a disgusted sigh. “Fine, I’ll come with you, but only so I can gloat when we don’t find anything.”

We made our way across the field, the early-afternoon sun trying to poke its rays through the clouds as we went. My trainers were covered in mud by the time we reached the line of trees, but we plunged in anyway. It was misty and damp in the woods, and both of us drew our wands. Animals or monsters, invisible in all the fog and shadows; screeched and skittered about, drawing more adrenaline into my bloodstream. I heard a growl that I was certain wasn’t my stomach. I’d never been into the Forbidden Forest; if it was creepier than this one, I never wanted to.

“It’s kind of cold in here,” Grant said. We’d been in the woods for barely five minutes, but he was only wearing a faded green shirt and a pair of jeans that looked like they’d survived since the 1970s, while I still had on my non-descript robes, now damp, their ends covered in mud, but still defending against the weather well enough.

I held up my wand and whispered, _Lumos._ The light gave me a slightly better view of the area around us, but fog still limited how far I could see ahead. And this at midday. I shuddered to think of this place at night.

Up ahead, then, I caught a glimpse of something square and manufactured against the cool blanket of fog. I took a few steps closer, Grant following, until I could see that it was a small shack, an old outhouse judging by the crescent moon on the door.

“Should we go back?” Grant said.  
  
“And get a professor?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “A professor for what, we haven’t found anything.”

I raised an eyebrow of my own. “Grant, I know you said your eyes were bad, but I didn’t think you meant _that_ bad. Do you not see that shack in front of us?”  
  
Grant turned and squinted, then grunted. “Gah! M-m-michelle—”

“What?” I hissed. His tone was pleading and, I thought, needlessly fearful.

“I saw it,” he puzzled. “But I didn’t _notice_ it. Someone must have put Apathy on it.”  
  
I stared at the little shack and took a step closer, holding out my wand and letting the light shine on it. “Apathy?”

“It’s a type of confounding spell used to keep things from being noticed,” Grant said. “There are a lot of different types, like _Repello Muggletum_.”

“Repello Muggletum?” I parroted. “That’s the laziest incantation for a spell I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“This is different though, since it worked on me, and I’m not a Muggle.” Grant stepped forward and touched the door of the shack. There was a loud pop and a spark of electricity jumped from his fingers to the door, or vice versa, and Grant jerked his arm back. He swore in Afrikaans and shook his hand.

“And the door has an electrical charge,” I said, frowning. “Grant, stand back.” I aimed my wand at the door, remembered Othello Harper’s sneering face, and said, _Flipendo._ My jinx blasted the door open, tearing the lock off and sending a static charge between it and the frame. The spark of electricity died down, and I stepped inside and motioned for Grant to follow. It was a tight fit, but at least there was no smell—if it had been an outhouse, the pit had long been filled in and now there was only a small table inside, wooden and weathered as the rest of the shack. In the middle sat a pewter cauldron in which bubbled some green concoction that gave off a smell like rancid cabbage.  
  
“Appetizing,” Grant said.

I bent down and looked under the cauldron to see a fire burning up from a rune that had been carved into the table, and that prompted me to notice that four other runes, different to the one that created the flame, yet identical to each other, were carved into the tabletop near the four corners. I tested my immediate suspicion by trying to tap the cauldron with my wand, but found its tip hitting an invisible barrier.  
  
“This is advanced stuff,” I said.  
  
“Michelle, this is university-level stuff. There’s not even a wizarding university in Great Britain.”  
  
“But there is one in America,” I said. “And Jacinto mentioned his mother had some books left over from her time there.”

Grant sighed again, but this time, he didn’t look as confident. “Okay,” he said. “All this does look quite bad, but maybe Jacinto saw someone else coming out of the woods and was investigating. It doesn’t mean he set this up.”  
  
I nodded. “Fine, but I’m going to tell a professor about this.”

  
Before we left, Grant used a stick of chewing gum to try and stick the latch back on the door to the shack to hid the fact we’d broken in. We would later learn that this didn’t work out too well.

*****  
**

**  
** Mostly out of trepidation, I did not immediately go to Snape—Snape being the obvious choice as both my head of house as well as Jacinto’s. Snape’s own attitude was partially to blame for that, but I still confess that it was ultimately my choice. By the time I worked up the courage, we had just got back to the Common Room after dinner. To my surprise, there was an enormous plate of cookies sitting on a table in the corner, beneath a banner that read VICTORY COOKIES—except that _victory_ was marked out with the word CONSOLATION written underneath it in Literally Magic Marker. Arianna Davis told me that she had baked them herself assured me they were safe.

I was surprised to find that one cookie had Mario’s face on it, and I quickly ate it up. This was a mistake; immediately my memory is fuzzy, and I recall only brief snippets of careless conversations that I had, completely unconcerned.

I woke up the next morning with the strangest feeling that I had forgotten something important. And then I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Josie standing over me, her eyes full of fear, but not for herself. “Michelle,” she said softly. “There was another attack. This time it was a student."

Thus I learned of the petrifaction of Collin Creevey.


	13. A Brief Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I celebrate Christmas. Sort of.

“I’m only saying,” Pansy Parkinson insisted, “that we don’t need to start using American Muggle terms. This is Great Britain, blast it, and we should call them biscuits.”

“Yes, Pansy,” replied Arianna Davis. She took the banner over her table of baked edibles and rolled it up, stuffing into her brown bum bag. “But these were a particular type of biscuits with chocolate chips, which are rightfully to be called cookies no matter where you are.”  
  
“Except,” Pansy said, “we’re currently in Scotland, so a cookie is something completely different.”

Arianna shrugged and walked away, green hair bobbing about. I watched her go, sitting in the black easy chair by the Slytherin fireplace and shivering. I was not cold; I was, rather, terrified. Something had been _done_ to me; my mind was not my own and I worried whether I could trust it. And I suspected that it was the Mario cookie that contained the secret magic. I didn’t know what I should do—go on and see Snape about the decaying shack we found in the grove? Tell Grant about what had happened to me?  
  
Or could I confront Jacinto himself? Tell him I knew what he was up to and why it had to stop?  
  
_Yeah, and issue my own Death Warrant_ , I thought.

So I waited. It was Sunday, so I had no classes to go to, and I felt too ill to go to breakfast. Or at least, to go alone. I waited until nearly 8AM before Grant finally emerged from the boys’ dorm, sleepy-eyed and sloppily dressed. I stared at him imploringly but didn’t say anything.  
  
“You smell of fear,” he said.

“Shut up,” I told him. “A student was attacked last night. I have a right to smell of fear. Did you tell Snape—or anyone—about the shack?”

“I thought you were going to do that.”  
  
“I was,” I said. “But then something happened. I ate one of Arianna’s cookies and—well, I forgot.”

Grant arched an eyebrow and slipped into a sitting position on the floor next to my chair. “How could you forget something like that?”  
  
“There was something in that cookie,” I told him. “Jacinto put some sort of forgetfulness potion in it.”

“He sabotaged a single cookie? And Arianna didn’t notice? Unlikely.”

“He did something!” I leaned toward Grant. “That cookie had Mario’s face on it. It was targeted at me! Oh, god, I gave him the clue—I should never have worn that shirt.”

“Your cartoon plumber?” He gave a bitter laugh. “You really believe what you’re saying?”

“I bet he’s filled with _loathing_ for my dirty blood every time he sees that shirt,” I whispered. “Collin Creevey is a Muggleborn too, you know.”  
  
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Your blood isn’t dirty,” he said. “Besides, I’ve had Jacinto as a Potions partner and he’s pretty rotten at it. I don’t think he could have made a forgetfulness potion. Or petrify someone, for that matter.”  
  
“Perhaps he’s pretending to be rotten at it,” I offered.  
  
“He’s not.”  
  
“He _could be_!”  
  
“Fine,” Grant said with a roll of his eyes. “Jacinto made a difficult potion and disguised it in a Mario biscuit, specifically to target you into forgetting—but only for one night—his secret shack where he’s hiding an even more difficult potion, which he will use for nefarious purposes. There, I’ve agreed with you. We can still tell Snape about the shack today. Let’s get breakfast, I’m sure the blighter’s already in the Great Hall.”

“Okay.” I stood up tentatively, as if the floor of the dungeon might eat me when I put my weight on it. My knees felt as though someone put a Jelly Legs Jinx on them. I hesitated and did not move.

After a moment, Grant pointed towards the stairs up. “The Great Hall is that way.”

“I know where it is,” I said, and slowly walked towards the exit.

*******

 

The Great Hall was packed with students eating breakfast and talking animatedly about the attack. I saw more than a few fearful glances as I walked past, most of them aimed at the Slytherin table. I was not in house robes, but I still felt the sting in the eyes of more than a few students, and I wanted to resent them. Instead I tried to ignore them and stuff myself full of breakfast.

Halfway through the meal, Grant grabbed me by the shoulder and pointed to the teacher’s table where Snape was finally joining the others. He, like the rest, looked haggard, exhausted. I knew he’d be in a foul mood, but I didn’t see any way around telling him now—not with another student petrified. I vaguely overheard Grant mentioning my sudden bout of forgetfulness, and then an assured voice speak up.

“It sounds like you were Confunded,” it said. I looked up to see Terrance Austin, a black boy in his fifth year and the only other Muggleborn in Slytherin.  
  
“Confunded? I think I’ve heard of that,” I told him.

“It makes the target confused, forgetful,” Terrance said. “If I remember my Ancient Runes homework right, it can even be inscribed so that it activates when someone touches it. Used to keep away Muggles in ancient times.”  
  
“And the rune could perhaps be hidden under frosting?” Grant asked.

“Never heard of a rune being inscribed into food,” Terrance said. “But I’ve also never heard anything that rules it out.”

“I told you it was the cookie,” I said, lightly punching Grant in the arm.

“Very well,” Grant said. “It seems you know what you’re talking about.”

“What’s this all about?” Terrance asked. “Who would have put that hex on you?”

“I have a theory,” I said, “but I’m not going to name names until I have more evidence. I need to go see Snape.”

I didn’t wait for Grant to follow me, but by the time I reached the end of the Slytherin table he was by my side (drawing calls of _Mudblood_ and _Nasty_ from some of the other Slytherins; I tried to tune them out.) We approached Snape slowly, trying not to draw too much attention to ourselves from the other professors. Snape looked up from his porridge with bloodshot eyes and a perplexed expression.

“P-professor Snape,” I said, afraid of an explosion of his famous anger. “Grant and I found something yesterday I think you should know about. I think it might be related to the attacks.”

Snape glanced to his left at Vector and, with belabored calm, told us to meet him outside the Great Hall in a few moments.

We did so, even as many students began filing out of the Hall with their bellies full. I leaned against a wall.

“Coplin!”

I jumped, standing at attention. Snape trudged up to me with Hagrid in tow.  
  
“Do not lean on the walls,” Snape said as he neared. “It gives the impression of laziness. Now, as you can imagine, the professors and staff have searched the Castle top to bottom since the attack early this morning, and Hagrid and Madame Hooch have carefully surveyed the grounds outside. If you can volunteer us any information that we’ve not uncovered already, I will be quite astounded.”

“We found an old shack,” I said. “In the grove north of the Quidditch pitch.”  
  
“Aye, there be an ol’ outhouse in there,” Hagrid said. “Back from well b’fore I was a lad in Hogwarts.”

“We found a potion in it,” Grant said. “I mean, someone was brewing a potion in it. It was protected by some powerful magic.”

“Is this true, Miss Coplin?” Snape’s eyes bore down on me.

I nodded.

“Reubis,” Snape said, “I believe that she believes she saw something. We’ll leave the question of what she was doing on the grounds alone for another time.”  
  
“I’ll look in t’it,” Hagrid said. “Yeh don’ have t’ask twice.”

“Very well,” Snape said, and turned back to me. “Is there anything else?”  
  
“I don’t think so.”  
  
Grant’s eyes widened to question me, but I shot him a glance meant to shut him down, and he seemed to take the hint. Snape turned and walked away, his cloak billowing without getting caught on anything for once. Hagrid bid us farewell and sauntered off to check the shack. Feeling as though there was nothing left to do but wait, I slumped my shoulders and began heading back towards the dungeons. I realized that I’d half expected that Grant and I would be going with them to point out the shack, but in retrospect this seemed like a foolish notion.

“Why didn’t you tell him about the pastry?” Grant said as we reached the staircase.  
  
“He barely believed we found that potion. You expect him to believe an enchanted cookie?”

“Point.”

*******

Snape appeared in the Common Room that night for a few announcements and also informed me that Hagrid had searched the shack and found it empty—no table, no potion. I asked about the runes, and Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he only shook his head. My chest felt hollow again, and I began to wonder if we’d start to see more attacks. Time seemed to speed up over the next several weeks, classes again taking precedence even as a panic began to build in the students—I saw more cheap talismans and amulets trading hands in that month than I did in the year that Voldemort controlled the ministry. Grant and I stuck together all the more, and tried to keep Artemis and Josie close as well because we felt there was strength in numbers. Our relations with Sypha and Emma became all the more hostile, and it wasn’t long before annoying hexes sparked from their wands, their petty cruelties encouraged by Parkinson, Bulstrode, and the Greengrass sisters.

Occasionally Tracey Davis would make a half-hearted complaint, but I sensed it was more out of fear that her big sister the prefect would get on their case.

A month after we found the shack, Snape appeared in the Common Room again and began taking the names of those staying over the Christmas holiday. I noticed that Jacinto was one of the first in line—as were Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. It was an easy decision not to stay myself. Grant had considered staying, but then on the day Snape actually took names, he changed his mind.

“My father is big into blood purity,” he reasoned. “He’s part of a group called Walkers Midst Carrion, a sort of political organization in South Africa, Death Eaters for morons. I bet he has access to their master genealogy chart. It supposedly has entries for every confirmed wizard in the world.”

“What good would that do us?”  
  
“Find out who the real Heir of Slytherin is,” Grant said. “Prove that it’s not Jacinto—”

“—or that it is,” I corrected.

“I hope you’re wrong for both our sakes.”

*******

The following week, a bulletin in the entrance hall announced the creation of a Dueling Club. Try as I might, I could not convince Grant to sign up, but I was able to get Artemis and Josie to come along with me. We watched rapt as Professor Lockhart and Snape gave a demonstration that ended with Snape blasting Captain Vainglory off the platform with a well-placed disarming charm. I started cheering, only to stop in mortification when I realized that Malfoy was cheering as well.  
  
“You prefer Snape over Lockhart?” Josie said, flashing her extremely white teeth as she laughed.  
  
I muttered that I only enjoyed seeing Lockhart humiliated and didn’t really care who did it. Plus, though I can’t say I ever liked him, I had at least had to respect Snape’s skill. Possibly because I reckoned that skill would be used against me if I ever contradicted the man again.

The two professors then came through the crowd, pairing people up. Lockhart grabbed Josie and Artemis (who swooned) and paired them together, but before he could decide on a match for me, Snape dragged a Ravenclaw girl over to me and partnered us up. Her hair was an even lighter shade of blonde than mine, and she smiled brightly while staring, seemingly, at something over my shoulder.

“I think the angel and the devil are about to get into an argument,” she said brightly.

“What?”  
  
“The devil on your shoulder. He just throttled the angel and pushed him off.” She pointed with her wand. “Look, there’s his body on the floor. I guess that means you won’t hold back.”

“I still don’t follow you,” I said, blinking.

“Everyone has an angel and a devil on their shoulders,” the girl explained. “Only the truly innocent can see them, which is why _The Daily Prophet_ never reports on their activity. If everyone could see them, I doubt Cornelius Fudge would be minister right now. His devil wins more often than his angel.”

“Are you speaking in cartoon metaphors?” I asked, finally following, I thought, her logic.

The girl shook her head, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, she extended her hand. “I’m Luna. What’s your name?”  
  
“Michelle,” I said, taking her hand warily.

We bowed to each other, and on the count of three, I stepped forward. “ _Expelliarmus!”_ I shouted, hoping I got the incantation right. My wand flashed and a beam of red lanced out, but instead of hitting Luna, the spell sailed over her shoulder—she had just ducked my curse!—and slammed into a seventh year Hufflepuff who was still awaiting his go. The wand sailed out of his hand and he fell on his bum. I barely had time to process this when Luna snapped back up from her artless dodge and, with an eager smile, aimed her wand at me.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ Her spell shot out, and before I could react it hit my wand and blasted it out of my hand. I fell back against the legs of an older student, who caught my wand for me.  
  
The rest of the Great Hall was in similar chaos, full of green fog, spells having misfired all over the place—Millicent Bulstrode even had one red-faced Gryffindor girl in a headlock until Harry Potter pulled the oaf away.

Lockhart intervened again. “I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” he said. Then Snape suggested they pair of Draco Malfoy with Harry Potter. I thought, _this should be good_ because I knew of their dislike for each other primarily by reputation. I stood back as they began, but instead of shooting a spell that Harry could attempt to block, Malfoy’s wand flashed and out popped a black serpent that thudded to the castle floor. It bore towards Harry for a moment, Snape telling him not to move, until Lockhart blasted it across the room. It began to attack another student—

Until Harry spoke—said _something_ strange and undecipherable, a series of low hissing syllables that formed a kind of language. Murmurs erupted through the Great Hall, and Artemis grabbed my arm. “Merlin’s beard, he’s a Parselmouth. This is heavy!”

I didn’t know what a Parselmouth was, but I soon realized the school had found their own prime suspect.

 

*******

“It can’t be Harry Potter,” I said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“I wasn’t saying it did.”  
  
“He may be a show-off but he’s not a psychopath.”  
  
“I’m not saying he is.”

“You don’t believe those rumors, do you?”  
  
“I’m not saying I do,” Grant said, this time with an exasperated tone so thick I couldn’t miss it. “All I’m saying is that this _looks_ bad. Parselmouths are considered dangerous, evil. It’s an old superstition.”  
  
“Why does the Wizarding World have all these stupid superstitions?” I growled. “I thought it was supposed to be better than the normal world.”  
  
“I don’t remember that on the brochure,” Grant said sardonically. “If you haven’t noticed already, the Wizarding World is a pretty effed-up place. People believe all sorts of stupid things. And it sounds from your parents like that’s also true in the Muggle world.”  
  
“My parents aren’t stupid!” I stomped across the first year boys dorm, kicking Othello Harper’s chest just for the catharsis of it. “They’re just convinced they’re right.”

“Without any evidence of what it’s like in the Wizarding World. Just as the students who think Harry Potter is the Heir of Slytherin are convinced they’re right. Without evidence.” Grant said.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Just as you’re convinced _you’re_ right about Jacinto. Without evidence.”  
  
“Hey!” I sat at the foot of Grant’s bed. “I found evidence.”  
  
“Evidence that he’s making a potion, not that he’s attacking Muggleborns. Also, evidence that has vanished.”

“Then we’ll just have to find more,” I told him.

But that was the last time we really got to talk about it before the final attack and the Holidays arrived, and I went home without any ideas. On the train, I sat with Artemis and Josie and some Hufflepuffs that I didn’t know. They talked of the attacks and what they might mean, but I sat, mostly silent, until everyone but Josie was asleep and she stared absently out the window. Halfway back to London, I took out my sketchbook and began drawing what looked like a course out of _Super Mario Brothers_ : blocks and biting plants, giant killer turtles. Then a figure hopped into the sketch and began stomping on the turtles and smashing the blocks, and I realized that it was Copi.

“You don’t have any sage advice for me, do you?”

 

“Not this time, I just wanted some room to run around.”  
  
I sat back and sighed, but then a kernel of an idea formed in my mind.  
  
“Can you move between drawings that aren’t in my sketchbook? Like the way the people in the paintings at Hogwarts can move to the others on different floors of the castle?”

“I don’t know,” Copi said, sitting thoughtfully on a ? Block. “You’re the one acing Charms, not me.”

When we arrived at King’s Cross, Amanda was waiting for me. She wrapped me in a hug as she approached. I notice my arms reached around her all the way for a change, and wondered if I’d gotten taller or if she had grown thinner.  
  
“I’m so glad you decided to come home for Christmas,” she said as she led me out to her car. “Your parents will be glad to see you, too.”  
  
“Will they?”  
  
“Of course they will, Michelle. They might not admit it, but they will.”

*******

 Days later the kernel of an idea had popped into a fully developed plan. I sat with a tiny round campaign pin from the most recent round of elections in the UK—as well as my sketchbook, a Charms text, and a dozen Literally Magic Markers. In red letters with a black outline I wrote MICHELLE COPLIN FOR DUELING CLUB CAPTAIN and then made a marker sketch of myself around it, surrounding it for good measure with the Slytherin colours of silver and green. When I was done, the sketch blinked and came to life.

“Whoa, I’m suddenly in colour. This is heavy, Doc.”  
  
“I need you to help me with something, Copi.” I took up my pair of scissors and carefully cut around the sketch in a circle. “I’ll explain more later, right now I need to focus on getting these Charms right.”

The text book read:  
  
_Any sub-creation with the affectation of Being who exists in one depiction can transfer to any other depiction of itself no matter the distance or magical barriers between them. In laymen’s terms, a portrait can travel between two paintings a great distance apart only if the two paintings depict the same Person. Otherwise transference between two works of art is limited to a smaller, well-defined area such as a home or gallery. Generally speaking, Charms and Transfigurations used on these will fizzle out unless cast by the original sub-creator._

This part of my plan was the part where the magic wasn’t completely above my head. I took the drawing and lay it against the pin.

I glanced across the room at Amanda, who was preparing a dozen pumpkin pies for the Christmas dinner she had planned. My gran had decided that Amanda would be hosting this year, so we’d already had to go through the house and systematically eliminate any traces of magic. I hated to see all her photographs of my uncle Paul put to rest with the Photo-Stilling Charm, but the last thing we needed, Amanda said, was for anything to set my parents off. I still dreaded seeing them…

I closed my eyes. Amanda said that she would be using so much magic getting ready for the dinner that the Trace on me would be completely ignored. Very well then:  
  
_“Reducio!”_ I pointed my wand at the drawing of Copi and it shrank down; I broke the charm off when it was the size of the pin. Then I focused on fixing it to the pin, and said, “ _Adhaerus_!”  
  
“I’ll need your help,” Amanda said as she hovered her pies into the oven.  
  
“I’ll trade it for your help,” I said with a grin. “I need you to multiply this pin for me. A few dozen ought to do.” I slid the pin in to the centre of the table.  
  
“Oh?” Amanda picked it up and read the campaign sticker on the front. “Sweetie, you know that very few people in Slytherin are likely to vote for—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “I don’t really want to be captain. I want to use Copi to spy on Jacinto Neithercut.”

“You still think he has something to do with the attacks? Michelle, promise me if you do find something, you’ll go to the professors and not try and run off and act like you’re Harry Freakin’ Potter. He was lucky last year.”  
  
“I understand, Amanda,” I told her. “I promise.”

“Remember, Copi will only be able to transfer to the original. All the others will be just pins.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“And they’ll only last for a while. Conjured matter always fades away in time.”  
  
“I don’t need them very long.”

Amanda pointed her wand at the pin and made a complicated wavy motion.

“ _Duplicaro Triginta_!”

Her wand flashed and immediately thirty exact copies of the pin erupted from the middle, surrounding the original. All else forgotten in my excitement, I scooped them all off into a knapsack, all except the original, which I pinned to my shirt. I started to run up the stairs, when Amanda’s voice lanced out and cut across me.  
  
“Where do you think you’re going?” she said.

“Um…”  
  
“You promised to help me if I helped you out.”  
  
“Oh right.” I dropped my bag on one of her armchairs and trudged back into the kitchen, ready to help prepare food.

*******

On Christmas Day my parents showed up last of all the rest of the family, glancing this way and that in a bizarre mixture of fear and disapproval. I approached them slowly, and when they said nothing, I wrapped my dad in a hug, then my mum. They didn’t return the hug; my mother stroked her fingers through my hair absently and my dad said, in a soft voice, “Hullo, Michelle.”

My dad said grace, halting and stuttering. When it was over, he gazed at Amanda as if terrified she’d disapprove of a Christian blessing and smite him with a curse. My mum, in contrast, was outright rude, making constant snide remarks and refusing to admit that Amanda’s pies were, in fact, delicious. I sat several seats away from them, chatting with my Uncle Nicholas about beef jerky and the strange wonders of America. I tried to steer the conversation in a different direction whenever the topic of my new school came up, partly because it made my parents immeasurably tense and partly because there was only so much I could say without admitting that I had become the victim of racially prejudiced bullies and lived every moment in fear that I would be petrified—or worse—by an unseen monster. And even less I could say without violating the Statute of Secrecy.

The tension was so thick by the time we were done eating that the lights were flickering throughout the house—I didn’t know if it was me or Amanda projecting the offending magic, but she was the first one to start making jokes and handing out presents. I gave my parents tightly wrapped box which they regarded as if it were a bomb, at least until they finally opened it and found that it was only several old episodes of _Doctor Who_ on Laserdisc, something Amanda and I had come across at a used record store in Bethany. Unfortunately they opened these before they opened the Laserdisc player Uncle Eustace bought them, so the surprise was somewhat dulled.  
  
“It’s the wave of the future,” he told them. “Sold half my kennel to buy it, too.”

A few relatives stayed and drank and talked until the wee hours of the morning, but after my parents left I no longer felt the need to join them. I sat in my room with the gift that Amanda had told me not to open until I was alone. It was the size of a thick magazine and flimsy, so I assumed it was a book of some kind. I opened it to find a cover that depicted a group of young witches and wizards dressed in a combination of gaudily colored robes and enchanted armor, leaping towards the viewer. It was obviously enchanted because their robes and hair whipped about in the wind. The on the cover was printed:

 

  
**THE YOUNG DEFENDERS**

**Hookum & Comstock**

 

I flipped through it and saw that it was a comic book. My mind was temporarily blown—a superhero comic book by and for wizards? I was too intrigued and wanted an explanation. I flipped the book over and read the back cover.

 _The first celebrated graphic novel of wizarding origin,_ The Young Defenders _by best-selling nonfiction author Daisy Hookum and legendary experimental artist Magenta Comstock, follows the adventures of a group of young witches and wizards who fight against the evil Dark Lord Grendlemort and his plans to enslave wizards and Muggles alike. Inspirational and groundbreaking, this fifth anniversary printing is dedicated to the memory of artist Comstock who passed away in 1991._

I smiled, reminding myself to hug Amanda in the morning. Demanding though she may have occasionally been, the woman knew what I liked. I resolved to dig into the comic—er, _graphic novel_ —as soon as I could, and also, because superheroes made me naturally think of him, to write a letter to Rupert tomorrow while I still had access to Muggle post.

With thoughts of my parents and Baby Jesus and Rupert flitting through my head, I slipped under the blankets and soon fell asleep.


	14. A Game of Wizard's Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am become Michelle, Slytherin of Slytherins.

The train station was impossibly quiet, knowing glances traded between every student on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Even many of my fellow Slytherins looked grim as we boarded the train. As I searched for a seat, other students’ whispers of words like _Heir_ and _Muggleborn_ reached my ears and reminded me of the potential dangers that awaited us back at the school.

I once again sat with Josie and Artemis, but this time I was pleasantly surprised when Grant appeared in the door to our cabin and asked if it was full.

“Sit down, you!” I motioned towards the empty seat next to Arty.

“I thought you were afraid to spend seven hours in a cabin full of girls,” Josie said, flashing her smile.   
  
Grant gave her a smug grin, an unusual expression for him. “Estrogen exposure has been known to cause me all sorts of nasty rashes, but as long as we don’t make contact, I should be fine.”

Josie held up both hands. “Don’t worry, I’m wearing mittens.”

Grant sat down and then shot me a glance. “Was your Holiday productive Michelle?”

“Uh-huh.” I looked to see if Artemis was paying attention, but she was already curling up and starting to nod off. “I produced quite a few things, in fact. How did your, uh, research go?”

“Swimmingly.”

“Keep talking in your secret code,” Josie said. “I love trying to decipher it.”

I laughed in spite of myself and sat back with a blush. Grant and I tried to avoid saying anything else regarding our Heir of Slytherin-catching plans, and instead turned the conversation to professional Quidditch. This mostly consisted of Grant rattling off South African teams that nobody else knew about, Josie singing the praises of the Hollyhead Harpies, and Artemis chiming in every now and then with an insult to the chances of the Chudley Cannons, who she apparently only knew by their sterling reputation for failure.

After the lunch trolley came through, Josie excused herself to go to the lou and Artemis leaned forward.

“Now that She-Who-Hates-Gossip is gone… spill it, Danesti,” she said.

“Spill what?” He arched an eyebrow.

“I heard you and the Golden Boy fighting on the platform. That’s why you’re sitting with us instead of him.”

“Wait, fighting? Why didn’t I hear about this?” I asked, suddenly interested.

“You were already on the train.”  
  
“Look, I don’t know why Jacinto threatened me—” Grant began.

“He _threatened_ you!?”

“Sypha Aulin was bawling in the door to the train and I told her to move. I may have used a few unkind words.” Grant muttered something I couldn’t understand and put his fist over his mouth to cover his scowl.

“Bawling?” I said.

“I don’t know what it was over, but Jacinto jumped to her defense and said that he would hex me.”  
  
Artemis’ eyes narrowed. “Did he call you… you know, the N-Word?”

I winced inwardly because the phrase made me think of a rather different slur than the one Artemis meant.

“You can say ‘the Nasty’, McFly,” Grant sighed. “And he didn’t call me anything. He just told me to let her alone.”

“Still, it isn’t like Jacinto to take up for people into Blood Purity,” I said. “You’ve told me that yourself, Grant.”

“Well I might have been wrong about him.” Grant looked out the window and took a sip of pumpkin juice, staying silent for a good minute. He finally looked like he was about to say more on the topic, when the door opened and Josie slipped back in. In silent consensus, we let the conversation stay dropped.

*******

After the return dinner that night, I sat with Grant in the Common Room under a green lamp; he was playing chess with Terrance Austin, and seemed to have met his match finally. The two boys kept making moves without killing anything; not because the kills weren’t there, but because the kills were deemed an unequal sacrifice compared to what the other would lose. I thought there might be a metaphor in that, but I didn’t say anything.

“Knight to…” Grant hesitated. “Queen’s pawn.”   
  
“King’s pawn to knight,” Terrance responded.

The piece did not move.

“What, did the enchantment wear off in the last two seconds?” Grant muttered.

“He’d be moving into check from your Queen,” I said.   
  
Terrance grimaced. “Damn, I should have castled.”

“Want to just call it a draw?” Grant said. He leaned back in his chair. “My head’s not in this game.”

I leaned forward in my seat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Grant said. “I just don’t feel like playing.”  
  
“You always feel like playing,” Terrance said. “You’ve been off your game tonight, though.”

“Well, you would be too if literally the only person in your dorm who doesn’t seem to hate you suddenly, well, seemed to hate you.”

“Never was a problem for me,” Terrance said. “Everyone in my dorm hated me from day one.”

I raised a fist and bumped it against Terrance’s. “Mudblood pride, yo.”

Grant slammed his hand palm-down onto the table by the chess board, rattling the pieces from their positions. “Do you have to joke about everything? This isn’t funny for me.”

“It’s really not funny for us, either,” Terrance said. “But if you let it eat you up, you’re the one who gets eaten.”

“Profound words,” I said with a sage nod.

*******

Grant and I used our wands to lift a bed from the side of the room to block the door to the boys dorm, then he tossed his bag on the floor an knelt by it. Out from it he pulled a massive roll of parchment, which he spread out on the floor of the dorm. On it were dozens, maybe hundreds of names with lines connecting between them, a family tree, or at least one huge branch of one. He slid his finger along it until he came to one of the lowest branches. Below the names Boudicca Ramirez Neithercut and Basarab Neithercut was the name of a single child: _Jacinto N. (19 August 1981- )_

“This is incredible, Grant.” I traced the lines up through a maze of names, my eyes crossing from the strain. The names were printed very small. “How hard was it to get this?”

“Immensely,” he said, his voice still full of annoyance. “The Walkers Midst Carrion archive is directly by Cape Town harbour. When I first tried to sneak in I found there was an Apparition trap set on the door that popped me directly into the water. And that was the least difficult thing to avoid.”  
  
“That’s horrible!” I skimmed the list of names a bit further, but none of them meant a thing to me. Then, something occurred to me and I looked up at Grant dryly. “Wait, so earlier when you said that your holiday went ‘swimmingly’ you were—”

“Making a pun, yes.”

I blinked. “Thanks for clearing that up. I’m going to hex you now.”

“Please, I’ve been hexed enough this winter.”  
  
“It’s only been winter for fourteen days.”

“My point exactly.” He paused for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I need to show you this, though.”

He traced his finger up from Jacinto to his father.

“Basarab Neithercut, is as far as I can tell, a nobody in terms of blood status. He barely qualifies as pureblood and has enough Muggle ancestors that he’d likely be kicked out of the Death Eaters or the WMC. His wife Boudicca, on the other hand, is as pure as they come.”  
  
He traced his finger up to a line that read Samara Ferdinand, who lived in the 1700s. “Samara is the first member of her family to live in America. She’s important, because as best we can tell, she’s the direct descendent of this person.”  
  
He moved his finger over a gap filled in with dotted lines instead of solid ones. His finger came to a rest on the name Salazar Fernando.

“They changed the family name when they moved, but the line goes back further in Spain, all the way to a dreadfully powerful witch named Galatea Slytherin.”

“A descendant of Salazar Slytherin,” I said.

“Not exactly.” Grant sighed. “The truth is, Salazar Slytherin’s line stayed in England and died out early in the twentieth century. Galatea Slytherin is the direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin’s brother. Jacinto is not a descendent of Slytherin, but he’s definitely related.”

“But wouldn’t that make Boudicca Neithercut the current Heir?” I said.

“Well legally, yes,” Grant said. “But what if Jacinto is taking orders from her? You told me he was using his mother’s spell books.”

I nodded. I couldn’t deny that was possible; even though he spoke like he and his mother didn’t get along too well, it might have all been part of the act. “We should tell someone. The Headmaster.”  
  
“We can’t just tell anyone. It would start a panic and Jacinto could be the victim of attacks. You see how people have been treating Harry Potter since he spoke in Parseltongue and he’s a national hero. If people thought Jacinto was the Heir—and if he’s not—we could screw him over.”

“And if people were suspicious, he might start attacking more students.”  
  
“Yeah.” Grant looked away. “And I still want to trust him. I know it looks horrible, but what if things aren’t like they seem?”

Just then, there was a pounding on the door and Arianna Davis’ voice. “Hey, what’s the deal? Why is the door blocked?”

I slapped my hand over my mouth in embarrassment, suddenly realizing what it would look like if they found a girl and a boy locked alone together in the dorm. My concerns were unwarranted, though, because a moment and a jinx from Arianna later, the bed we’d moved against the door flew across the room and slammed into me, knocking me to the ground and sliding over top of me.

When Arianna barged in and demanded to know what Grant was doing, he quickly rolled up the parchment and muttered something about interrupting his alone time.

I felt my face flush so red that the glow might have given me away had Arianna been looking at the floor.

*******

I slid easily enough back into my studies, including continuing at the dueling club. Thankfully there was not a repeat of my disastrous first match with Luna Lovegood, and I became adept at disarming other first years with a bit of reliability. Older students, not so much. I wanted Grant to join me, but he remained bitter and it became difficult to be around him, every thought seemingly devoted to figuring out Jacinto—not whether he was up to no good, but whether Jacinto liked him personally. I told him he was being selfish; he told me I couldn’t understand.

It was a week before Arianna Davis announced that Slytherin needed to select a captain for the Slytherin team in the Dueling Club. We’d vote on 1 March, so I threw my faux-campaign into high gear. I fixed ten of my pins to the notice board in the common room and handed others out at random. Josie and Artemis knew something was up, but took my pins anyway. I suspected it was out of pity.

The original, with Copi inside it, stayed pinned to the lapel of my robes, and every time I was free I looked for an opportunity to pin it to Jacinto. (Not literally.) Jacinto, however thwarted my attempts by sticking close to students whose company I wished to avoid. More than once I saw him chatting animatedly with Othello Harper, laughing even. And since her bout of crying on the train, he clung close to Sypha Aulin. I came across the two of them in a corridor shortly before Valentine’s Day, and slipped behind a suit of armour, wishing I knew some of Grant’s Chameleomancy talents.

“Can you believe they’re making us go to class on Sunday?” Jacinto was saying. “And a holiday on top of that.”

“We did miss all those days when the teachers all mysteriously came down with Dragon Pox,” Sypha said.

“True.” Jacinto’s voice didn’t betray any emotion. “I bet it was Snape’s fault. He doesn’t seem big on hygiene.”

“You’re horrible,” Sypha said, but her voice was smiling. “You should respect Snape. He’s a teacher.”

“The way you respect McGonagall? What was it you called her? A ‘pus-filled hag’?”

“That’s different,” Sypha said sternly. “My dad says McGonagall’s under Dumbledore’s thumb, says she’s a troublemaker.”

The two of them passed in front of the armour in front of me and I held my breath, squeezed my eyes shut. I was about to mutter an apology for eavesdropping when I heard Jacinto’s voice more distantly.  
  
“Some trouble is worth making, Sypha. Bah, listen to me, I sound like a Gryffindor.”

I opened my eyes and saw the backs of them, walking down the corridor with arms full of books.   
  
“You think they’re hot for each other?” Copi whispered from my lapel.

“Sssh, you,” I said. Though, since it was Copi, I knew the same thought must have been flitting around in my brain somewhere.

*******

“They’re bonding,” I said. “If he likes Sypha then he must hate me.” Professor Binns droned on in the background; he rarely seemed to hear, let alone take note, of whispering in class. Maybe he knew that nobody but the Ravenclaws really listened to him anyway.

“Because Sypha hated ya?” Artemis said. “Is that what ya think?”

“Sypha hated me from the start. She still hates me.”

“Nae, she didn’t, and she doesn’t.” Artemis leaned forward. “I don’t know if you noticed, but when the two of ya first met, she thought she was bein’ friendly.”

“She said I was stupid and lost.”  
  
“Aye,” Artemis said. “But that’s how a lot of us see Muggles. Me dad was always right impressed—and afraid—of what they could do without magic, but a lot of dads, dads like Sypha’s got their heads stuffed so far up their bums that they can’t see past their lack of robes and their dog ugly hats. Comes with old money.”

“You’re dad’s pretty rich too, isn’t he?” I said. “Even with the market at the bottom.”

“Sure, we got some gold leftover, but he’s New Money. Leprechaun Gold Speculation’s a newish thing, inspired by Muggle economics, in fact. It starts with taking a few pots of it and—”

“Artemis,” I hissed, too loudly. I drew glares from Ravenclaws in the front row and Binns paused his drone for a moment, as he did whenever he was interrupted. If he stopped talking, you had two seconds to stop talking yourself or he’d continue on in a ghostly wail that managed to sedate even the most boredom-resistant students.   
  
After a moment, Binns went back to talking. “I don’t need a lesson,” I said, more quietly. The bell rang a few moments later and the class began spilling out.

Artemis joined me, throwing her red hair behind her and tying it into a ponytail so it wouldn’t blow about: we had flying next, a fact I was grateful for. Even in the cool of February I’d rather be whirling through the air than stuck in a class room. I figured that if something was going to attack, the attack would happen in the halls of the school. The monster in the Chamber of Secrets couldn’t find me in the sky.

Could it?

Arty interrupted my thoughts. “What I was saying earlier was, Sypha got mad at ya because ya called her dad an idiot. Not saying he’s not an idiot, but an insult’s an insult. And then she got caught up with Pansy and Millicent and they twisted her in knots trying to convince her that y’re just a daft Mud—well, you know.”

“Well it worked. She’s convinced.”

We trudged down the first floor steps, dodged a corridor when we saw Peeves down it, and then headed to the grounds where Madam Hooch awaited us, looking a bit pale. There were still a number of Dragon Pox scars on her face and I was amazed she’d lived as long as she had without getting it before. Or maybe it wasn’t like chicken pox—you could get it more than once. I honestly didn’t know. We were the only two Slytherins who’d arrived yet, so we were in no hurry

Artemis sighed. “But ever since they kicked her out of their little gaggle, Sypha doesn’t know what ta think. All I’m saying is, she had a reason to be mad at ya, and now you can give her a reason to forgive ya.”

“Wait,” I said, stopping dead in my tracks. “What do you mean they kicked her out? Who kicked her out of what?”

“Ya didn’t hear about it?”  
  
I blinked. In fact, I hadn’t, but that’s because I’d been doing my best to avoid Sypha and the second year cliques she clung to. I knew that Sypha had been studying harder than ever, going to bed early, and generally appearing down, but I never thought about asking her. The idea of intentionally initiating a conversation with her seemed counterproductive.

“What happened?”  
  
“Well, I only heard second hand from Emma, and she’s just guessing at some of it. But over Christmas the girls who stayed here got it in their heads that Sypha isn’t really a Pureblood. They said her parents couldn’t have a girl of their own, so her mum killed a Muggle family and took ‘er away.”

“And that baby just happened to be a Muggleborn?” I said skeptically.

“Aye, it’s mad. And have ya seen her dad? She’s looks just like ‘im.” Artemis shrugged. “But that’s what I heard. After that, Parkinson told her off and that’s why she’s been a weepy wall-flower this whole term.”

Madam Hooch called class into session and the twenty-or-so students, Gryffindors and Slytherins, gathered around our brooms. We’d long since covered the basics, so Hooch began explaining how to pull off more advanced flying techniques, such as barrel rolls and quick reversals; the latter of which involved applying the braking charm while simultaneously willing the broom towards the left or right. The best brooms, she said, could pull it off in two seconds flat, like what one might see in professional Quidditch matches. The school brooms, however, were rubbish, and it could take up to five seconds to perform the maneuver at top speed.

Hooch lined us up in two rows facing each other.

“Of course this is beneficial for our insurance policies because slow brooms are less dangerous than fast brooms,” she commented. “And God knows Professor Snape costs the school enough there.”

Several Gryffindors burst into giggles, Ginny Weasley particularly amused. She still looked peaked and pale, but there was a small flush to her cheeks when she laughed that had been entirely absent the night I’d met her in the corridor. I caught a glimpse of Sypha too, trying to fight off a smile herself.

Moments later we kicked off, assuming various positions over the school’s courtyard and practicing the techniques. Madame Hooch flew among us, giving us pointers and demonstrating the techniques for those of us who just weren’t getting it. I drifted upward as I practiced, inching ever closer to a figure I saw out of the corner of my eye. Only when I was within comfortable speaking distance did I fully realize that it was Sypha, and that I’d been getting closer to her to talk to her.   
  
Her face was red and splotched and her technique on the barrel roll was even worse than mine. She didn’t seem to notice me at first, so I nudged my broom gently, drifting closer to her and hoping Hooch didn’t shout at me for not practicing, or for disrupting the practice of others.

“Is there a reason you’re in my personal space?” Sypha said after a moment. She hovered to a stop beside me, her eyes boring into me. My urge was to leave, and forget I’d even gone up there. But I needed a way to get close to Jacinto, and close in a way that didn’t immediately look suspicious. I didn’t see any other options; this was, to borrow a Muggle expression that my Uncle Eustace was fond of, one bullet that I’d have to bite.

“I just wanted to say that I was sorry,” I told her. “For calling your dad an idiot.”  
  
“You came to apologize for something you said to me months ago? I barely even remembered that.”  
  
I could tell she was lying. I didn’t say anything because I sort of was too.

“Well not just that,” I said. “I heard about what happened between you and Pansy and I was wondering if maybe we could start over. I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when we met.”

“Why would you want to get friendly with me now?” her eyes narrowed. “You know how we feel about people of your birth.”

“Yeah, because the people who convinced you I’m a filthy Mudblood proved so reliable in the end, right?”

She stared at me for a minute, not crying but with her eyes wide and damp. I thought she was going to say something else, but instead she turned and backed away, flying off for more practice. I grimaced and whirled after her.

“I have to work on my technique she said,” spinning into another awkward barrel roll. I backed away myself and began dropping in height. I didn’t know whether or not I’d gotten through to her or she even accepted my apology as sincere. That was an uphill battle on its own because I still wasn’t sorry, not really. Her dad was an idiot and there was nothing that could change my mind about that. But that didn’t necessarily mean Sypha and I had to hate each other. I thought my own parents were, if not idiots, being incredibly cruel, and Grant’s parents were by the sounds of things unspeakably awful. There was no reason for animosity between us except this: she accepted her dad’s ideas about Muggleborns, even in part, and as long as she did I could not accept her as a friend.   
  
Not a friend, maybe, but a useful chess piece to throw against Jacinto.

*******

Hours later I slumped against the headboard of the bed in my dorm, ignoring the conversations around me. I thumbed through my Bible, looking at chapter headings, skimming passages. Nothing seemed to click, to reach out and grab me, though. I was afraid, terrified, of what I’d find if I dug deeper than some of the famous versus of comfort. For every Psalm 23 it seemed like I stumbled across a ‘clobber’ verse about the fate of the wicked and what, ultimately, would be fall them. I noticed the translation here, that Amanda had given me, was different than the one my father often red from. Where his Bible might say that the wicked dead would go down into _hell_ , this Bible wrote _the grave_ there, with a footnote. I followed the footnote to the bottom of the page, where it was printed in italics, _sheol._

 _Sheol_? I didn’t know what that meant. A Hebrew word, obviously, but why have a note there and not on any other random word.

After a moment I put the Bible down on the nightstand between my bed and Josie’s and picked up the copy of _The Young Defenders._ I still hadn’t opened it to read it. Pastor Wilkins had often preached against things like Dungeons and Dragons, saying it promoted witchcraft. Ironic, then, that that fear stuck with me now that I was actually practicing witchcraft. I forced my fears aside and read the prologue.

 

_In the beginning there was only darkness until the Great Wizard raised his wand and willed light into existence. But the darkness resented the light, and seeded the world with men and women who could bend the darkness to their wills and cast spells—the origin of wizards. Then, one of those wizards stood up and cast the darkness out of herself, inspiring others to do the same, so that wizards were no longer beholden to the evil in their hearts but had choices. The problem was, all that darkness had to go somewhere, and it gathered together and corrupted the birth of a child; the child, in time, came to be known as Grendlemort, the Mountain King, who would live for all eternity._

 

I turned the page. There was a brief summary, just a few panels each, of various wars and schemes that Grendlemort caused, each ending when someone rose to challenge him; some of the schemes I recognized as events in wizarding history, others as actual Muggle wars that Grendlemort supposedly caused, behind the scenes. Then the book fast forwarded to 1986; a small white house in Surrey where a fourteen year old girl named Tandy Devers prepared to go to Hogwarts for the first time. I was just about to read where to where she reached the Hogwarts Express, when I felt a presense standing over me.

I looked up to see Sypha, clutching her wand, fiddling with it nervously.

“I was thinking about what you said.”

I blinked. “Sypha—”

“I guess what I’m saying is, if you want to try and start again and forget what’s happened between us, then I’m willing to give it a go. Because right now I have only one friend in the world and he’s not allowed in this dorm.”  
  
She sat at the foot of my bed. “Actually, I was wondering if you could explain Flitwick’s charm theory lecture,” she said.   
  
So now I’d be helping her with her homework. I silently closed my book, gritted my teeth, and nodded, putting on the least strained smile I could muster. If I were going to have a relationship with her, even one as… utilitarian… as this, then I’d have to have something to talk about, some pretense to get us together, to let us at least pretend we were bonding. And I didn’t have much longer to go before March 1st, before the vote, so it would have to be fast.

“I think the problem is,” I said with forced cheerfulness, “that Flitwick sort of glossed over that transitive theory of thaumaturgy thing from last week and you pretty much have to have that down before you’ll understand what we talked about today.”  
  
And in my head, I said, _Knight to King’s Pawn._


	15. A Dose of Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a small part of me perceives danger.

“I still don’t understand,” Sypha said. “Why would God be angry at us for using the magic He gave us. It would be like if your dad gave you a broom for Christmas and then just blew up at you if you dared to use it. Not just using it inappropriately, but using it ever.”

I inwardly laughed at the idea of my own father ever giving me a flying broom. “Sypha, that’s where you and my aunt always trip up in this argument. What if it’s not GOD giving us these powers? What if they’re coming from somewhere else? Somewhere bad?”

She cocked her head to the side. “My dad says—”

I arched a skeptical eyebrow. I was tired of her appealing to her father’s supposed authority anytime we had a disagreement. Never mind the fact her father outright disliked witches of my birth; Sypha had attributed to him the most asinine opinions on movies (they’re all boring, all of them), television (it’s too complicated, I don’t understand it), and politics (the Tories had the right idea about monarchy, they just need a king who ain’t no stinking Muggle) in the past week and a half.

“I mean,” she retreated. “That there’s no reason to think magic comes from somewhere bad. Look at all the good it’s done for us. Non-magical diseases are pretty much gone for us, we can build things in hours that it would take Muggles weeks. We can Apparate anywhere we want in the world."

I frowned, because while it was true that magic could do all these impossible things, it wasn’t enough for me. “But what about the way it’s affected people?” I scratched my head. “I mean look at the tossers in our house. Look at Draco Malfoy and Daniel Rosier. Look at Parkinson!”

Sypha flinched, as if I’d slapped her by saying Parkinson’s name.

“Magic has made so many of you arrogant and cruel. How can you say it comes from God?” I sat back, tapping my wand against the palm of my hand. I didn’t want the argument to continue, but Sypha seemed determined, her jaw set, to press on.

“Are your lovely Muggles any better?”

“Yes, absolutely!” I said. “Muggles are morally better than witches and wizards. There, I said it.”

“You’re wrong,” Sypha told me. I looked away because she looked hurt. I had a hard time mustering any sympathy, though. Finally, she reached the scroll of parchment and the old text book that we’d slid aside. “Alright,” she said. “Whatever. Let’s get back to this homework.”

“Right. So, the transitive theory of thaumaturgy posits that any time a charm is cast, it must be cast on something. But this ‘prime metaphysical principle’ theory states that ‘something’ isn’t necessarily an object. You can enchant an area, a rune, even a word.”

“I got that part, but how does it relate to casting Scourgify?”

“A cleaning spell has to be targeted,” I said. “You have to clean _something_ , but that ‘thing’ can be a room just as well as a dirty dish.”

“Well it’s really simple when you put it like that,” Sypha said. “Flitwick always explains it with big words.”

I sighed. “Sypha, _chemical_ is not a big word. Just because you don’t know what it means doesn’t mean it’s a big word.”

“I know what it means now,” she said. “It means _reagent_ , right? So why doesn’t he just say _reagent_?”

I wasn’t sure there was a direct one-one equivalency between those two words, but I accepted her definition for the sake of argument. “I think he does it so Muggleborn students understand what he’s bloody saying. I don’t think I’d ever heard the word _reagent_ until I met Snape.”

“Well that just goes back to what my dad was saying, that we shouldn’t brew a weak version of our lessons just to suit Muggleborns.”  
  
“And yet who is tutoring whom here?” I couldn’t help myself; I gave a huge, smug grin.

Sypha stared at me and narrowed her eyes. “Touché, Coplin.”

I sighed. “Okay, fine, I’ll drop the smugness. I shouldn’t be smug."

It wasn’t her fault God had blessed her with a smaller brain than mine.

“No, by all means gloat,” Sypha said. “I don’t go to church, but I do think I remember somewhere the Bible says that pride goeth before a fall.”

“Look,” I said, clearing the open books from between us. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to apologize here.”

“I accepted your apology, Michelle,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I have to like you.”

I ground my teeth. At this rate, I was never going to get Sypha anywhere near close enough for friendship for her to want to support me for Team Captain. And that meant I’d never get her to wear the pin with Copi on it. I was about ready to give up and go to bed when something Artemis had once said about economics came to mind. “If you’re not going to at least pretend you’re my friend after I’ve helped you with your homework, can I ask you a favour instead?”

“What favour?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

I grabbed the Copi-pin from my lapel and handed it to her. “Wear this. I’ll get you through charms if you support me for Team Captain.”

“Are you pulling my leg?” Sypha said. “If Pansy or Blaise or, God forbid, Draco saw me supporting a Muggleborn for anything...”

“Give me five minutes and I’ll take care of that problem,” I told her.

*******

  _In_ The Young Defenders _I read more about Tawny Devers. Tawny was fourteen and yet just now boarding Hogwarts Express for the first time. Her parents, though English by birth, had lived in France for years, and she had attended another school called Beauxbatons while they were there. But now they lived in Surrey. On the train, she was harassed by students from Slytherin and Gryffindor, who were drawn in a comically exaggerated style, the Gryffindors having wavy manes like lions while the Slytherins seemed to slither in and out of panels like snakes._

_Tawny was nearly hexed by a surly Gryffindor when a silver-haired boy in a shimmering black robe rescued her. His name was Alonso Peck and he was a Muggleborn Ravenclaw. Alonso was considered the brightest fourth year, a Ravenclaw, and could supposedly outduel any of the bullies._

_Witty dialogue was exchanged and the story moved forward; Tawny was sorted into Hufflepuff and quickly became horrified with the way some students—especially the Slytherins—treated Muggleborns. She said in France, in Beauxbatons, Muggleborns were considered equals, which Alonso laughed at. He’d said that France hadn’t ever had the problems England did, and though the words Death Eaters and Voldemort weren’t mentioned in the text, the implications were clear._

_Then the story cut to a secret meeting in a floating mansion above London, concealed from Muggle eyes by powerful charms, where a group of malevolent figures was meeting._

_“My fellow Crimson Flood,” intoned a crimson robed wizard, “one thousand years have come and gone since the First Coming of the Dark Lord, and five since the Second.” The lines of speech balloon writhed on the page. “It is up to us to ensure his reincarnation is not further delayed. Grendelmorte must rise again this year or the Ministry of Magic will destroy us.”_

I closed the book, unsure of what the story was getting at. Sure, Voldemort had the Death Eaters, but they didn’t actually control his rise, ensure his resurrection, did they? I wondered if there was something else, some metaphor buried in the story. The Dark Lord returned because some creepy wizard with a flying mansion above London said so? I didn’t like it, because in my heart I believed this: men like Voldemort came into existence of their own accord and there was nothing we could do to change that.

*******

That Thursday I finally got Grant to attend the Dueling Club meeting; Lockhart continued to fumble about, and when Draco Malfoy dueled the teacher and it took several awkward blocks of Malfoy’s attacks before Lockhart finally blasted him off the raised platform with a muttered spell that didn’t sound like any of the incantations he’d taught us in the club so far. Malfoy rose from his spot on the floor with hand on his chest, his eyes shining with anger. Pansy Parkinson rushed over, raising the hem of her robes with her hands. She started cooing over him—and, I saw, restraining him from flying after Lockhart in a rage. As the two of them arrived at the Slytherin corner of the room I heard Pansy scolding him for even beginning to entertain the idea of attacking a teacher.

“The bastard deserves it,” Malfoy said. “He could have killed me using that curse! I mean, on a student? He must be mad.”

For once I had to agree that it was over the line, though I suspected Malfoy was exaggerating as to whether the curse was potentially fatal. Still, Captain Vainglory didn’t seem to have hexed Malfoy out of malevolence so much as out of incompetence, as if he couldn’t bring to mind any normal dueling spell and then muttered the first thing that came into his head. I wondered why it was so hard for a trained adult to remember _Expelliarmus._

Lockhart came around and began partnering people up for dueling practice—Snape had been forcefully removed from the equation by the Headmaster after his stunt in pairing up Malfoy and Potter. Lockhart was much less interested in inter-house rivalries and hatreds so partners often ended up being two students from the same house; and predictably, tonight I was paired with Grant Danesti.

“I’ve got to fight her?” Grant said to the professor, horrified.

“I’ve got to fight him?” I said, stunned. I was torn, because I wanted to see how far I’d come since the start of the school year—could I beat Grant? But what if I couldn’t?

Lockhart looked dismayed at the idea. “I would really prefer if you didn’t _fight_ per se.” He glanced to his left at Malfoy in the corner. “This is dueling _practice_ after all. Surely you know how to disarm someone without harming them, lad.”

“Like you did with Malfoy?” Grant said.

“Um yes, that,” Lockhart gave a derisive laugh. “Young Drago is quite a bit better than I expected. He’ll make a fine duelist some day, yes indeed.”

“You used the _Malleussempra_!” said Grant. “Were you trying to break his ribs or something? Honestly, professor,”—and Grant almost spat the word _professor_ —“That was dangerous.”

“Yes,” Lockhart said. “Well, that’s why I’ve not taught it to you all. I’m an expert on these sorts of things, of course, and you’re just a student. Now here, prepare to duel her while I see if the Malfoy boy is alright.”  
  
Before Grant could further protest, Lockhart was gone.

“What’s Malleussempra?” I asked as we took our positions apart from each other in the Great Hall. I felt my stomach twisting into knots. I realized why I felt so ambivalent: I didn’t want to lose to Grant because he acted smug enough as it was and I didn’t want feed that ego. And yet winning was a scary proposition too, because Grant’s ego was about all he had, given the scorn the other Slytherins piled on him, the way his parents treated him, and his sisters’ constant torment. I didn’t want to make his life worse.

“Malleussempra, The Forever Hammer,” Grant said. “Kind of a nasty spell. Can be used to break bones, crack skulls. Kind of fallen out of favor because it’s considered barbaric.”

“And he used it on Malfoy,” I said to myself. “Nutter.”

I wiped sweat from my forehead. It was way too warm in here to be wearing our robes, but Captain Vainglory had insisted we all wear them to the club.

Grant bowed to me, and I returned the favor. We both took a step back and readied our wands. I searched his red eyes for any sign of getting ready to strike, but he seemed sleepy, almost distracted. I wondered what, if anything, he was thinking about. Was this all one big game to him? Did he just come to humor me? I let my anger and apprehension at this thought twist through my body and into my arm and took a step forward.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ I called; the red beam lanced out but Grant leaned forward and it sailed over his shoulder. Immediately he tried to strike, shouting the same curse and firing off a red beam of his own. I didn’t have time to dodge.  
  
“ _Munitio_!” I cried. It was a sort of parry charm that Lockhart had taught us when he realized that the vast majority of students weren’t getting _Protego_ right. Instead of absorbing the impact of an incoming curse, _Munitio_ bounced it. I waved my wand down, reflecting the curse into the ground where it burned and fizzled out. I took a step forward, thinking about trying the Knockback Jinx. But Grant knew I favored that spell and would have probably seen it coming. So instead I threw out another Expelliarmus, the red beam bouncing off Grant’s reflection charm and knocking the wand out of the hand of a nearby Hufflepuff. Beams occasionally did that; Lockhart had not really considered the consequences of teaching a Great Hall full of adolescents a spell that would bounce hexes in random directions.

“Damn,” Grant said. “ _Flipendo_!”

The Jinx slammed into me and knocked me backwards, but I was wearing thongs; instead of knocking me over, I slid backwards with the force, my shoes’ friction being rather nonexistent. I slammed into the wall but I didn’t drop my wand or fall, so I figured I was still in the duel. I extended my wand, my brain flickering through several possible spells before I settled on the Tickling Charm.   
  
“ _Rictussempra_!” I called. A silver-white beam flew out and slammed into Grant’s knee. He immediately began belly-laughing—an unusual and frightening thing for him—and fell to one knee. I grinned because I thought that meant I’d won the duel. I aimed my wand again to disarm him for good measure, but before I could say anything Grant launched to his feet, gritting his teeth through the tickling charm. His arm unfolded from his side and his wand flashed.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

The red-white beam slammed into my chest and I felt my wand ripped from my grip. I landed on my bum and looked up to see Grant scowling over me.

“You put up a good fight, Michelle.” He extended a hand to help me up.

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” I told him as I stood. I looked around; a few students had watched our duel, but most were absorbed in their own duels or those of other students. They wouldn’t notice how livid Grant appeared. I’m unhappy to say this, but seeing no of-age witnesses to Grant’s rage made me feel vulnerable.

“I should have done better,” he growled. “You nearly won that.”  
  
“Why should you have done better? I’ve been going to dueling club every Thursday and this is your first time. And you _still won_.”

Grant immediately answered, “Because you’re—”

“You had better not finish that sentence how I think you were going to finish it,” I told him.

“No!” he said, suddenly looking apologetic, though still annoyed. “It’s not because you’re a Muggleborn, it’s just because you have less experience. Right? I mean, I’ve had to put up with being hexed and jinxed all my life. It’s just that you’re so new. I didn’t expect you to learn this fast.”

“But you didn’t get your wand until you came to Hogwarts,” I said.

“I didn’t _own_ a wand before I came to Hogwarts,” he said. “But I swiped plenty of them to defend myself from my sisters.”

“Well, you can’t rest on your laurels,” I said. “Whatever laurels are. Plus, you’ve not had to deal with Sophitia and Jilll while you’ve been at Hogwarts, so you’re not as alert as you normally are.”  
  
“Are you saying I’ve gotten soft?” Grant almost laughed, though it might have been the remnants of my tickling charm. “I guess I ought to practice more.”

I wiped sweat from my forehead again and felt it pooling around my neck beneath my robes. “What do you say we just watch the older students and learn,” I said. “We can practice ourselves later, somewhere cooler.”

*******

Somewhere cooler turned out to be the shadowy wooden infrastructure beneath the Quidditch pitch. I was bundled up in several layers of clothing, the outermost being a pink hoodie with Princess Zelda emblazoned on the front. Grant, though, wore only a tee-shirt and jeans beneath his house robes. He seemed to be feeling the chill of the late February air, because when he wasn’t flicking jinxes at me, he was trembling.

I deflected a _Rictussempra_ into one of the wooden beams. “Grant, I don’t see why we can’t practice up on the pitch itself. Nobody has the field today since Angelina Johnson and the Ravenclaw captain hexed each other arguing about it.”

“What does it matter to you?” Grant said. He launched an _Expelliarmus_ charm at me, but missed and splintered one of the beams holding up the stands.

“Well for one, I’m afraid that we’re going to bring the bleachers down on us. For two, there’s actual sunshine up there.”

“Sunshine is overrated,” Grant said. He stepped forward again and fired off some pretty pink curse that we’d both seen Padma Patil perform the day before. Lavender Brown had tried to deflect it, but the curse exploded against her charm and knocked her down.   
  
I lunged forward, figuring that magic was not the right choice here; I punched the curse with my left fist and sent it careening back at Grant. But it sparked when it hit my fist, and a jolt ran up my arm. My fingers were numb and my arm tingly.

Grant narrowly avoided getting hit by the curse himself; he stared at the patch on the ground where it had landed and was now fizzling out like a bottle of Dr. Pepper dumped unceremoniously into the dirt. He was leaning up against the cross section of two of the support beams and looked more afraid than anything.

“Grant, can we take a break—?“

Before I could finish my sentence, Grant had raised his wand again, repeating the same curse with a flicker of anger in his eyes. I tried to dodge it because my arm was too numb to try and punch it again. Instead the curse caught me in the face as I ducked, exploding in a violent pink burst that sent me sprawling on my back and into the dimmest darkness.

_“You’re backing Coplin for the Dueling Team leader,” said a voice within the darkness. My eyes fluttered open, but everything seemed hazy, like I was looking at it through clouded glass. The voice spoke again and I realize it belonged to Jacinto. “What a brave girl. I mean, she’s crazy. Not a ghost of a chance she’ll actually win.”_

_I tried to say something, but couldn’t, as if I had no mouth. I heard another voice—Sypha’s—coming from somewhere behind me. I tried to look for her, but I couldn’t move my neck either. I had no neck._

_“Sort of.” My entire view shifted, backed away from Jacinto. “I’m doing it as payment for her tutoring me.”_

_Jacinto smiled, that big golden boy smile of his, distorted by the fog into something like the grin the Joker wears. “And the racist jerks in our house haven’t hexed you a new orifice because—?”_

_“She charmed it to barf whenever it sees one of them,” Sypha said. “So they’ll think it’s another vandalized pin like the ones Draco and Goyle were wearing.”_

_“That’s a really complicated bit of magic,” Grant said. “Hell, the modifications to the pins Malfoy and his clique wore were made by seventh-years. How does it identify the racists?”_

_There was a grunt from Sypha, and the whole world shook. “I didn’t ask,” she said. “And could you stop using that word. They’re not racists—look, Blaise Zabini is one of them. They just think wizarding learning should stay in wizarding families.”_

_“I fail to see how that’s any different than racism,” Jacinto said. “But honestly, the fact that the pin isn’t barfing for me is strange. Coplin and Danesti found that potion I was brewing in the woods. I think they’re convinced I’m the Heir of Slytherin. Would you mind if I borrowed that, Sypha? Here, I’ll give you mine.”_

_Sypha reached down; her hand covered my field of vision unpinned me from her robe, and handed it over to Jacinto. He pinned me to his own lapel, and when his hand moved, I could see Sypha. Even through the fog I could tell she was unusually happy, in a way I hadn’t seen her happy… well, ever, but particularly since Parkinson had thrown her out of their clique._

_She was affixing a pin of me to her lapel. “Why do you even have this if you don’t think she stands a chance?”_

_“The girl’s got guts,” Jacinto said. “I’m proud of that even if she’s trying to thwart my evil schemes. And what are Harper and Watson going to do about it? They couldn’t duel their way out of a house-elf sack.”_

 

My vision grew cloudier, dimming until it was completely black again. I heard my name being called, felt a hand on my shoulder—I suddenly had shoulders again. Through pain and cold, I pulled myself back to consciousness and looked up to see Grant.

“Michelle!” he called. “Bloody hell, are you okay?”

“Copi’s in danger,” I muttered.

“What?” He leaned back and studied my face for a moment. “Michelle, I’m so sorry. I was just in shock and anger that you bloody punched my hex away and I thought I’d catch you with it again, but I didn’t mean to hit you in the face and—I’m sorry. I did something mad and I’m sorry.”

“Why does my head hurt?” I rubbed the back of it, from where a dull throb was spreading out over my cranium.

“You cracked your noggin on that support beam when you fell,” Grant said, in the most pathetic and consoling tone I’d ever heard him use. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well I’m not,” I said. I picked my wand up from the dirt. “Look, I’ll be mad at you later. I’ve got to see if Copi is okay.”

“What do you mean? Why would Copi be in danger?”

I pulled myself to my feet against the wooden beam I hit my head on. That was the least it could do for me after giving me a concussion. “When I was out, I saw from her point of view. She was with Jacinto, and… Oh gosh. He knows it was us who found his potion in the woods and he suspected something was strange about the Copi pin I gave to Sypha.”

“What were you trying to do, get Sypha cursed?” Grant said. “I mean, I know neither of us particularly like her, but that’s just cruel.  
  
I grimaced. “She’s fine. I asked Copi to barf whenever she saw a blood-purity nut. But Jacinto realized something was odd since it wasn’t barfing when it saw him. I think he knows there’s something different about that pin.”

“Where is it now?” Grant said. “The pin?”

“It’s on Jacinto’s lapel. Come on, we have to get back to the castle!” I ran towards the retaining wall that held up the dirt the Quidditch pitch was grown on, pointed my wand at the ground, and shouted _Flipendo._ The knockback jinx sent me rocketing upward, where I grabbed onto the top of the wall and rolled over onto the grass. Stains on my jeans and hoodie were pretty irrelevant now that I’d been lying in the dirt.

Grant followed suit, blasting himself higher but stumbling on the landing. I helped him and the two of us ran towards the nearest exit to the pitch—and nearly bowled over Madam Hooch.

“Coplin? Danesti?” she assumed a scornful pose. “What the devil are you doing out here?”

“Practicing spells!” I blurted. It was technically true I thought it would be better to leave out the dueling part.

“Without adult supervision? Honestly, Coplin that is what the classrooms are for. Surely Professors Snape or Flitwick would have let you borrow their rooms if you needed to work on something. Stop fidgeting, Coplin, you look like a vampire in a garlic factory. And is that a cut on your cheek?” Hooch grabbed us both by the shoulders. “I’ll see what Professor Snape has to say about this.”

*******

One quick trip to the infirmary later, Grant and I were knee deep in cauldrons, as Snape stood over us, making sure we cleaned every one of them to his liking.

“We have rules for a reason,” Snape said, looking out over his curvy nose. “Madam Hooch didn’t say as much, but I’m sure she reached the same conclusion I did. You weren’t just practicing any spells out there, you were dueling. I don’t know who you think you’re going to be fighting, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. We have a designated day of the week to practice these sorts of charms and a designated class to learn them.”

“You try learning anything about defense from that brainless fop,” Grant said.

I winced in anticipation of Snape’s response. The professor glared at Grant and practically snarled at him, “Clean your cauldrons, Mr. Danesti. It’s not the student’s responsibility to handle the affairs of teachers.”

I scrubbed my next Cauldron viciously and hastily. Copi could be in all kinds of danger; Jacinto could be torturing her, for all I knew. I had to get this bloody detention done before it was too late.

“You should have seen him yesterday, Professor,” I said. I tried to keep the word Professor as magnanimous as possible and let him think my anger was directed entirely at Lockhart. “He couldn’t even disarm Malfoy and ended up hitting him with—”

“Malleussempra,” Snape said drolly. “Yes, Miss Coplin, I heard all about that from young Mr. Malfoy, complete with his characteristic exaggerations. I’ve spoken with the Headmaster about it. Now if you don’t have any other complaints to register, I’ll be grading your resent reagent exams.”

Snape turned with a billow of his black robes and stomped over to his desk.

Meanwhile, my elbows hurt.

*******

After the detention was over, it was past curfew, so I headed back to my dorm and punched my pillow until it surrendered. I tried to contact Copi from the sketch of her in my sketch book, but she didn’t answer. I was so worried, I barely got any sleep; I was lucky that the next day was Saturday. I finally crawled out of bed that morning around 10, got dressed, and immediately ran to the boy’s dorm. I knocked and waited for the door to open. When it did, I stared into the face of Billy Harper, a boy with hair as black and greasy as Snape’s but a face as freckled as the average member of the Weasley family. He also looked groggy.

“What do you want, mudblood?”

“I’m here to see Grant.”

“Yeah, and I’ll let you in when Muggles learn to fly brooms. Sod off.”

From the back of the room, I heard Grant’s voice pipe up in annoyance until Billy Watson was grabbed by the shoulder and tossed aside. Grant slid through the door and shut it before Billy could respond, and I heard some sort of hex crack against the inside, the thrum of a _Munitio_ charm, and then Billy’s distorted scream.

“I think all the doors in the castle bounce back spells like that,” Grant said. “Brilliant, if you ask me.”

“Okay, fine.” I shook my head. “But what about Copi?”

“She looked okay to me,” Grant said. “Well, other than puking up green sick all night. Harper and Watson couldn’t get enough of that.”

“That’s disgusting.” I looked down the hall towards some other students, emerging from the common room. As usual, Arianna Davis was looming over the lot of them, making sure none of that good old Slytherin ambition broke out into a fight. She was purported to have a right hook as mean as her Bowel-Evacuation curse, which was good for unlucky Muggleborns like me and Terrance. “So he hasn’t experimented on her yet?”

“How could I know that? All I know is that she seems to be okay.”

“I’ve got to find a way to communicate with her,” I said.

“No, what you need to do is calm down, carry your sketchbook with you where ever you go today, and stop worrying about a bloody drawing.”

I winced. I couldn’t really rebut that, because he was right—Copi was just a drawing. She even told me that she shared her mind with me, which among other things, explained why I’d seen from her perspective when I was knocked unconscious. But Copi meant a lot more to me than any other drawing I’d done. Even though she was sort of me. (Or maybe _because_ she was me.)

“It’s not that simple,” I told Grant.

Grant insisted that our first stop of the day was the library, because we just _had_ to do all our Astronomy homework in the middle of the day. Grant said that if we waited until the actual stars were out, it would be too dark to see.

“Your vision again?” I said.

He nodded. “It’s an albino thing.”

We poured over star charts for two hours, until I was certain that I was going to get Cancer from breathing in too much of the Horsehead Nebula. The last star I drew on my homework chart was Alpha Centauri, which reminded me of a science fiction show I’d once watched on the telly at home.

“Alpha Centauri is the closest star to Earth, you know.”

“Did I mention I lived next door to an observatory?” said Grant. “I lived next door to an observatory.”

“Oh, right.” The Walkers Midst Carrion archive had the world’s most massive magical telescope sticking out of the top of it, and Grant had lived right next door to it until he moved to Johannesburg two years ago. “Scientists say that we might go there someday. Make it the first planet we visit outside our solar system.”

“Muggle scientists may say that,” Grant said. “Wizard scientists are more interested in discovering a genetic marker for magic blood or figuring out if magic is a wave or a particle.”

“It’s a wave, obviously,” I said. “It interferes with electric devices. That’s why I can’t play a Gameboy here.”

Grant labeled the Andromeda Galaxy, put his quill down, and glared at me. “What the bloody hell is a Gameboy?”

I grinned. “Not telling you. I’ll show you, one day. When school is out.”

“Aren’t you two a little young to be discussing wave/particle physics?” said a boy’s voice. I turned to see a tall brown-haired boy with a face so exquisite it reminded me of the men on the covers to my mother’s sexy vampire novels. I felt myself blushing, mostly because I was in my wrinkled house robes and he was dressed like Romeo, vest, trousers, and poofy sleeves. He was at least two years older than me.

“Uh, yes,” I said. “Yes we are.”

“Cedric Diggory,” he said, extending a hand. I shook it. “A friend of mine noticed your necklace there and thought you might like to be invited to the chapel service tomorrow.”

“Chapel service?” I blinked.

“That’s right. The Headmaster’s all big on accommodating every sort of person, and agreed to let us host a chapel service on Sunday morning. I don’t actually expect it to last that long, on the count of nobody coming, but I figured it was worth a shot.”

“Seriously?” I blinked, my world turned upside down again. Which, I suppose in a way meant that it was turned right-side up. “I thought I was the only Christian student at this school.”

“I reckon not!” Cedric said, laughing. “It may be the 90s, but for better or worse, it’s still the biggest religion in the United Kingdom. So, will you come? It’s in the Great Hall before breakfast.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling the weight, suddenly, of all the Sundays missed, all the nights I didn’t pray and chose a comic book over my Bible. It wasn’t exactly guilt, but a sense that a part of me was missing, that I’d cut off an arm when I agreed to come to Hogwarts.

“We’ll I’m not bloody going,” Grant said. “No offense, but when your holy book presents stuff I could do with a wand as incredible miracles, I can’t really take you seriously.”

“Well, that’s a fair point,” Cedric said. “But I’m not here to debate you.”

The boy wondered off and I leaned forward and hugged my sketchbook. Suddenly Endy Summerby didn’t seem like the most attractive boy in the school. Though, I doubted that Cedric Diggory would be quick to date a first year, even if I was as old as a second year.   
  
Still, I could have my crushes, right?

While I was lost in thoughts of Cedric (and Endy coming to fight the older boy for my honor), I began to notice muffled screaming coming from somewhere in front of and below me. I looked in the floor and saw nothing, only then realizing that the noise was coming from my notebook. I tossed it down on the table and rushed to open it to Copi’s page.  
  
She was leaning against the tree in the background, huffing and puffing. As she ran towards the page, little pencil lines of sweat flew off of her.

“Michelle!” the little drawing said.

“What’s wrong?” said Grant. “Is it Jacinto?”

“Yes!” she took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure why pencil lines needed to breathe—and what did she breathe for that matter? Paper?

“Where is he?” I said.

“I don’t know. He’s left me at the stone circle across the covered bridge. He had Sypha there and he told her how you’d been using her to get to him. He said he was going to go find something of his that could destroy me. I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

“This is mad,” I said. “Stay here in the sketchbook, Copi. We’ll be there as fast as we can.”

I shoved the sketch book and all my astronomy stuff in my backpack and ran towards the door of the library, the librarian screaming at us for the racket and the running.

My heart was pounding again. I had to move fast.


	16. A Resurrection to New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I confront Jacinto, lose a fight, and learn what words mean.

“Are you sure you should just rush into this?” Grant said, huffing as he ran beside me.

“Absolutely,” I said. “There’s two of us. Sypha can’t duel her way out of a magic bag. We can take Jacinto if we work together. And maybe we’ll get back while they’re still gone.”

We thumped down a flight of stairs, crossed the courtyard where others students milled about, huddling close together for warmth and for feelings of safety. My and Grant’s sprint destroyed the false sense of serenity that hovered over the school since the weeks that had gone by between now and the last petrification. I thought I heard Filch gabbing at us from a window. We stomped down one final flight of stairs and out the door, we hesitated before the bridge. I knew it was buttressed by tons of spellwork. I knew it would take literal explosives to bring it down. But the thing just looked plain rickety.

Up ahead, a couple of Ravenclaws stared at us as they neared the castle.

“You going for a jog?” the boy said.

I nodded. “A sprint, really.”

“Carry on then,” said the girl. I couldn’t remember her name, just that she was a fourth year and that she really wanted to be a prefect. God only knew why.  
  
Grant gave me one of those looks of his as they slowly walked past and vanished into the castle, and then we both started running again. As we reached the other side, we slid to a halt because the pathway was known to hide ice beneath snow that blew down from the trees. We avoided it, stomping up the narrow path to the stone circle. Both of us were winded when we reached the middle of the rocks, but I scooped up the pin from the center before I stopped to breathe.

Copi’s blank face gazed up at me from the blue background, unmoving. Frozen.

“Fake,” I whispered. I felt ill.

“So, I was right.” Jacinto Neithercut’s voice cut across the cold like my mother’s kitchen knives through asparagus. I looked to where the voice had come from. He stood just beyond the circle, in the arch before the stairs that lead down to the gamekeeper’s hut. Sypha stepped out beside him, clutching something tightly against her chest. I couldn’t see through her hands but I knew it was the real Copi pin.

Grant looked at me horrified, then at Jacinto. “What did you do?”

“I set a trap for you,” Jacinto said. “Or really more of a test, to see if I was right about your pin being a spy.”

“Let her go!” I shouted. I pointed my wand at him.

Jacinto extended his hand to Sypha, who, I noticed, hadn’t taken her eyes off me. Her red-eyed stare hurt more than knowing I’d been duped. Her gaze projected a message as clear as you’d see on any movie screen: _traitor, liar, sneak_. Sypha simply put the pin in Jacinto’s hand. The American boy tossed it across the distance between us and it clattered to a stop at my feet.

“You’re not going to destroy her?” I said.

“Of course not.” Jacinto shook his head. “The fact that you’ve even made an animate sketch in your first year is amazing. That’s incredible for a first year, and a Muggleborn. Did you do the duplication yourself too?”

The shock in my eyes gave him a false impression.

“That’s really impressive,” he said, and seemed to mean it. His tone wasn’t condescending in the least. But I was livid, to the point that I didn’t even feel like correcting him. That didn’t matter nearly as much as whatever he was trying to do in secret.

“I know you’re brewing that potion,” I said. “I know what you’re up to.”

He smiled. “No, I kinda doubt it, since you seem to think I’m the bad guy here.”

“You _are_ the bad guy!” I snarled, rushing towards him. He and Sypha both immediately trained their wands on me and I stopped dead in my tracks. “All those Muggleborns are statues thanks to you.”

The expression on Jacinto’s face paled, and the bizarrest laugh escaped his throat, like a cockatrice under the tickle torture of a _Rictusempra._

“You think _I’m_ the Heir of Slytherin?” he said, loud enough that I worried other students—or, God forbid, teachers—would hear the commotion. “That’s—oh my god. All this time I thought you were just playing campus cop because of all the rules I’ve been breaking.”

“Do I look like a prefect wannabe? What are you doing, then?” my fist tightened around my wand.

“If you must know, I’m trying to brew Veritaserum,” Jacinto said tersely.   
  
I studied his face, looking for any hint of a lie. “Which is?”

“Completely illegal!” Grant said. “What are you thinking, Neithercut? You could get expelled.”

Sypha looked at me. “Veritaserum. It makes you tell the truth. I can’t imagine _why_ Jace would be making some. It’s a controlled substance and one hell of a hard potion even for graduates.”

“The hard part is patience,” said Jacinto. “Which I have in spades.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “What do you need it—”

“Malfoy,” the boy said casually. “He’s a coward, so don’t think he’d kill anyone himself. But you heard him on Halloween. He knows more than he’s letting on. Now, I don’t know that much about Voldemort or whatever—” At the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, Sypha inhaled sharply—“But maybe if I can get him to talk to me, I can figure out how to stop the petrifications before the school shuts down and I have to go back to—”

His voice sounded as though it were more strained, less calm, at the end before he trailed off. After a moment, he finished: “Back to America.”

“Well that’s just brilliant,” Sypha said. “If you screw up and get the potion wrong then you could kill Malfoy, or make his brain swell, or have him babbling stupid nursery rhymes for the rest of his life.”

“And if I don’t, more students will be turned to stone, maybe killed. There will be no school, Sypha.”

“Does it mean that much to you?” I said. “What’s so bad about America?”

Jacinto grimaced. “The people I have to put up with.”

“Your parents,” I ventured. “Does anyone at this school have a good relationship with their parents?”

Jacinto and Grant looked at each other, at me, at Sypha. Sypha’s hand shot up.

“You don’t count, Sypha.” Her eyebrow raised, her face betraying both hurt and confusion. “We already established your parents are morons.”

Sypha’s arm tensed, and she winced as if I had poked her with a sharp pencil.

“ _Bitch_ ,” she spat.

“It’s the truth!” Behind my angry bluster, the thought occurred to me that my parents were morons too, in her eyes, and in Grant’s. But the fears of my parents seemed so much bigger and more legitimate. Here I was, learning and practicing witchcraft—a power the Bible said came straight from hell. And maybe it was that feeling of being damned, that ever-present perception that I was engulfed by sin while at Hogwarts, that drove me on. And maybe it was also projecting. “Your parents are worthless idiots!”

“They are NOT!” Sypha thundered. “ _Nesselsukt!”_

Her wand flashed and immediately my arms and legs and chest started burning and itching, and I felt my skin tighten like a dozen mosquito bites just appeared out of nowhere.

I stepped back as though distance would make the hex stop, my foot catching a patch of ice and sending me toppling head first onto one of those ancient stones. The rock was harder than my skull, and after a sharp pain that made my eyes think a camera flash was going off in them, I was out.

*******

I came around in the infirmary, dizzy head throbbing and hungry stomach churning. I could see it was dark out, the stars twinkling in the rare clear winter sky. The voice of Madam Pomfrey floated across the room, tense whispers in which I could make out the words _Mandrakes_ and _Petrified_. I sat up, slightly, and for the first time noticed the itching and burning along my right leg, which spread up my side and draped over my shoulder. It was less intense than before, but—

“Michelle? You awake?” It was Grant.

“Yeah. I’m here. Damn, my head hurts. What happened?”

“Sypha hit you with a nasty Suit-of-Hives hex, then you fell and got a concussion. Pomfrey made some ointment for the rash. I think it worked.”

I resisted the urge to scratch the skin around my knee joint. “Not entirely,” I said tersely. “Where’s Copi? And do you have any aspirin?”

“I got your sketchbook from the library. Right here.” He held it up so I could see. “I gave the pin to Josie Cohen for safe keeping. And I have no idea what aspirin is.”

“Never mind.” I sat up all the way now. “How long was I out? Where are Jacinto and Sypha?”

“Sypha split. Thought she’d killed you. Jacinto ran after her. Haven’t seen them since. And you’ve been out for nearly five hours.”

“What did you tell Pomfrey?” I said, suddenly having pangs of guilt. “Did you say Sypha’s name—”

“You bet your arse I did,” said Grant. “That fall _could_ have killed you. You’re lucky it didn’t.”

“But the fall was an accident. I know she shouldn’t have hexed me, but I was provoking her. God, I’m such an idiot. It’s like I’m turning into a _real_ Slytherin or something.”

Grant’s shoulders drooped. “Well, her parents are Blood Purists. They really _are_ morons. Look at what their stupid ideas—” He trailed off, but I could see his red-tinted eyes staring at his unnaturally pale hands. The Nasty.

 _Did to me_ , I silently finished for him.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” I said. “I didn’t say it to clue her parents in. I said it to hurt her.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Damn right it is!” I struggled to keep from shouting. “Holding a grudge like this—”

“A grudge?” Grant’s eyes narrowed and his fingers interlocked. He seemed to look past me for several seconds, pressing his thumbs together and thinking. He was like me in some ways, and yet he had to deal with things that I couldn’t even comprehend. My parents had disowned me after finding out I was a witch—but Grant’s parents had _never_ loved him. I was the picture of good folk: middle class, white, blond hair and green eyes. Grant, though from a well-off family, was a foreigner with a strange accent, bearing constantly this mark on him, the white skin and red eyes. The ‘logical’ conclusion of blood purity.

“You know what?” I said. “It’s late. I’m probably not making any sense. Get back to the dorm. I’ll be okay.”

Grant shook his head. “Awright, I guess. That was kind of abrupt.”   
  
“I need to think,” I said.

“Sure you do.” Grant dropped my sketchbook and the copy of _Young Defenders_ down on the bed. “Night, Michelle.”

*******

Lacking anything else to do in the night, I read.

 

_In chapter five, Tawny Devers and Alonso Peck befriend two more—a tiny Gryffindor boy named Alvin, and a raven-haired Slytherin named Cassandra. Though Alonso is the only Muggleborn among them, the four quickly become friends. Then, Cassandra sneaks off, using a fireplace in the Hogwarts Kitchen to Floo out to her home. We see her father—he stands revealed as the leader of the Crimson Flood. His name is Ludwig Veratte. Cassandra’s hair blows in the wind in one panel, the ink like a tempestuous sea. Ludwig tells her that they, the true heirs of the great Salazar Slytherin, will flood the world with the blood of Muggles and Mudbloods. Cassandra smiles. “Yes, father.”_

_The final panel on the page pulls back and shows us that Cassandra lives in that evil flying mansion above London._

_The following page opens on a lecture by a Hogwarts professor—a huge teal man with a model of a Hydrogen atom drawn on his head; he floats around the classroom wearing only black briefs. The students address him as Professor Adams; he’s said to be a Djinn, a mystical spirit of Arabic origin._

_The caption reads:_ Monday, Adams’ Ancient Artifact Studies course.

_“Today we’re going to talk about the Great Artifacts of the House Founders,” he said. “Every witch and wizard is raised knowing of some—Gryffindor’s Sword, Hufflepuff’s Cup, Slytherin’s Locket, and Ravenclaw’s Diadem. Today, all are lost save the sword. But there are four more yet, and those four are hidden—Gryffindor’s Shield of Courage, Ravenclaw’s Rapier of Wit, Slytherin’s Staff of Remorse, and Hufflepuff’s Gauntlet of Greatness.”_

 

The lights in the hospital wing dimmed, and Pomfrey called for all the patients—the non-petrified ones—to get some rest. I dog-eared the book, closed it, and soon fell fast asleep.

*******

I woke up when the Sunday morning sun blazed through the windows. It was the first clear day, I think, that entire February. As Pomfrey and her nurses brought breakfast, there was a bit of a commotion at the door, at which point it opened and in crowded more than a dozen students. The tallest of them all was Cedric Diggory. I was relieved when he walked through the sunbeams that poured in and did not burst into flames. Not a vampire. Safe to fancy.

“Top of the mornin’ to you!” Cedric called. “Michelle, I’d like you to meet our group, the Hogwarts Congregation.”

Cedric took the time to introduce me to the other students. Over half were Muggleborn, with completely mundane names like Geoff and Matthew and Viviana. Not a Draco or a Nymphadora in sight.

“What’s all this, anyway?” I said. “I thought you lot met in the Great Hall.”

“Normally, we do,” said Cedric. “But we heard you’d taken ill, so we decided to drop by and have the service here. Professor Dumbledore just said not to make too much noise.”

“I’d like to second that,” I said. “My head’s pounding. Concussions are the best, trufax.”

“I’m sure.” Cedric grinned. “Regardless, I thought we’d open today with a prayer originally said by Minister for Magic Ottaline Gambol after the invasion of Poland in 1939.”

He read:

 

_Gracious God of Life and Magic, who has designated love the most powerful magic of all._

_We live in dark times. Even as the specter of war looms in the West, a shadow that darkens the Muggle and Wizarding Worlds alike, a threat all too real for us, seemingly safe here in the British Isles, looms nearly as large. Be it Adolf Hitler or Gellert Grendelwald, let us know that evil men—all evil men—have only their time in the sun. Let it be known that whatever technologies of war be used—be they carbines or wands, bombs or spells—that You are in control. Protect us from the terror of combat, and inspire courage in us even as You have inspired it in the gallant masses who fight for the freedom of every man, woman, witch, and wizard._  
  
Keep us safe, and let us take heart.

_Amen._

“Amen,” repeated the others.

“Amen,” I said.

“I’m going to be short today,” said a tall girl who stepped forward. I recognized her has a seventh year Gryffindor. I believe she had said her name was Kate; she wore black jeans and a black shirt with what appeared to be a fishnet undershirt. Her ears were all pierced up and down, her hair spiked. I’d seen her plenty of times, but her presence here was like seeing her all over again. She wasn’t who I thought she was—in as much as I had any thoughts about her.

She picked up a Bible.

“This lesson may sound trite, or be hard, dealing with what we’re facing now. Hell, there’s three petrified kids over there, all Muggleborns, crying out for justice. And I hope to God justice will come. But we have our own duties in the meantime. Look at Mark 11:25…”

I barely heard much of Kate’s lesson. It was about forgiveness—the topic that had been bubbling in my mind all night. But more than anything, I felt… uplifted. As though I were a deflated balloon suddenly filled again. Coming to Hogwarts had cut me off from this, from sharing my faith, for two semesters.

And all of it was unnecessary. All I had to do was not assume things. At the end of her lesson, Kate blew a bubble from her chewing gum and then turned it over to the rest of us

“Any questions, or anything you’d like to share?”

My hand shot up before I knew what I wanted to say.

“Michelle?” said Cedric.

“I hate Syhpa Aulin,” I blurted. The rest of them blinked. “I mean, I don’t guess I hate her. It’s just, I’ve been taking it out on her. What I really hate is all this blood purity rubbish. And she was there, and convenient and—”

“Younger than you,” Kate said.

That stung. It was me, I was the bully now.  
  
“Yeah.”

“Michelle,” Kate said. “It makes perfect sense to be angry. There’s a bunch of Slytherins I’d love to clobber, or hex. And I can’t even imagine some of the stuff you must have heard, being a Muggleborn in Slytherin. Your anger is not a sin.”

“There’s a but coming,” I whispered.

“There is. You’re still kids. Sypha has a lot of the same troubles I had when I was her age. I just accepted whatever my parents told me. So when they told me I was evil for practicing magic and wearing make-up to Sunday school I—” She paused, thoughtfully. “Well, to be honest, I told them to blank off because I liked being evil.”

She looked at the others, feigning more embarrassment than she felt. “I’m probably the worst example. Ignore me. Take Geoff over there, yada yada, same thing. I see how you might have internalized all that. It’s like, the idea that magic is wicked is in your blood as much as magic itself is, and Blood Purity is just as much a part of many students’ upbringings. You can’t take that out on them, though. There are plenty of pillocks who’ve made their choices and sided with the racists, but you eleven year olds still have a chance to be better.”

“That reminds me,” Cedric said. “I dug this out of our old storage closet.”

Cedric handed me a three-ring binder, arithmancy notes scribbled on the front below a spellotaped-on title: _Witches of Faith_. Down in the bottom right, a little flower was drawn in magic marker, above which sat the name Lily. I opened up the binder—the object seemed to confuse the pureblooded students around me—and saw the front page, an aged loose-leaf notebook with faded writing; beneath it, a typed A4 page relayed the same information.

 

_“Witches of Faith” by Lily Evans_

_Reporting on the distortions and misconceptions about magic. A guide for all muggleborn students of faith, struggling with their powers and what it means for their walk with God._

_Compiled 3 rd August 1975_

 

“Thanks,” I told Cedric. “Who’s Lily Evans?”

“Student here, long time ago,” Cedric said. “Muggleborn like you. I never thought to ask where she is now, but given the date on that book, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she died in the war.”

I nodded, the skin on my back crawling. The murder of Muggleborns was a thing then. The petrifications now also targeted those of Muggle parentage. Maybe, I thought, there was no person—no incarnate Dark Lord connecting them, but there was the prejudice. And if I was in danger at Hogwarts, then might Mum and Dad also be, even as far away as London?

Then it hit me—not as an articulate realization, but a visceral feeling. If I were to survive, if I were to keep my parents safe from whatever may come, then I’d have to put my fears about witchcraft to rest completely. I thought a prayer towards Lily Evans, wherever she was, and turned the page in the binder.

*******

The first few pages spoke a lot about language—ancient Hebrew, and all the difficulties and ambiguities of translating. Some words’ meanings were lost to history. The English Bibles we used often substituted translators best guesses, or used a word that was technically accurate but had a different set of connotations.

Lily Evans wrote of the passage “ _You shall not suffer a Witch to live”_ that the term _witch_ was _m’khaseph._ “One who uses spoken spells to harm others.’ This word does not connote just any practitioner of magic. Indeed, the concept of witches and wizards as we know them today did not even exist in the times these scriptures were compiled and written. The spellcasters this passage condemns were dark sorcerers who used their powers to strike down or afflict others.”

And then, in the list in Deuteronomy 18, Lily introduces a Pastor Clarke, a member of a Presbyterian congregation in Cokeworth. Citing the words as Clarke’s, Lily wrote:

 

_The list of forbidden occult practices in this famous practice is full of words with very specific meanings to the Hebrew people, and the specifity is lost when translated. **Yid’oni,** means making contact with dark spirits who don’t serve God. **Sho'el 'ov** is sometimes translated Necromancy and essentially means trying summon the dead for divination. **Qosem q'samim** is another form of divination, trying to tell the future through the casting of lots. **M'onen** is next, and it means predicting the future through omens in nature—much more like the American ‘groundhog’ day than anything Lily has related to me of the Hogwarts curriculum. **M'nachesh** , the next word, means enchanting or charming, with the word seemingly a derivate of the word for snake. Snakes, as we all know, were a symbol of evil and deception to the ancient Hebrews—not to mention full of poison. **Chover chavar** is next, which is apparently casting spells through the tying of magical knots. When I explained this to Lily, her response was to arch an eyebrow in incredulity. She’s never heard of any magic of the sort in her years at the school. **M'khaseph** means evil spellscasters, as Lily has already covered. The final forbidden practice is **doresh 'el hametim** , another method of ‘asking of the dead.’ The ancients likely understood how this differed from Sho’el ‘ov, but that knowledge is lost to any scholarly source I could dig up—pardon the pun._

 

I lay back on my bed, not realizing how tightly I’d been clutching the binder, nor that stinging tears had formed in my eyes at some point during the reading.

 _They were words,_ I thought. Just words, which had both meanings in the literal sense and connotations. The idea that the word translated _witch_ could mean something other than witch—something other than what I was now, through and through—had not occurred to me. Or, if it had, it was just as quickly dismissed and subsumed into the self-loathing I’d buried myself in since coming to Hogwarts. Amanda’s rationalization, her appeal to Jesus’ simplification of the law and the prophets to two simple commandments—weren’t enough. Though I remembered the words daily, they had felt at the best like a placebo. Realizing that even the law didn’t say what my church and parents claimed it did was a cure.

No, more than a cure. It was like a resurrection.

*******

“You seem happy,” said Grant. Hours after Cedric and the others left, he creeped in and sat on a stool by my bed. “You getting out of the hospital wing today?”

“Probably.” I took a deep breath. “Cedric and the others stopped by this morning. We had a church thing here, and they gave me this.”

I handed Grant the binder. “It’s really helped me put a lot of things in perspective.”

“Oh?” Grant took the red notebook and skimmed through it, frowned skeptically, and set it down on the foot of my bed. “Like what?”

“Parents, mostly,” I said. “Like, my parents taught me certain things about what the Bible says and what my religion teaches. But how much of that is just the same stuff their parents handed down to them? A lot of rubbish gets mixed in, especially when there’s a bunch of different languages involved.”

Grant shrugged. “I guess.”

“But that also means I can never fully understand how you feel about stuff. How angry you must be at people like Sypha’s parents. The Aulins did to her something even worse than what my parents did to me. They made me hate myself, but they convinced Sypha that it was okay to hate others.”

“And that doesn’t make _you_ angry?” said Grant. “You have more to lose than I do. Whatever else I am, at least I’m a pureblood.”

“I _am_ angry,” I said. “But if I wanted to, I could put my wand down, go back home, and live the rest of my life as a Muggle. I have a way out. You don’t. I was about to tell you off yesterday for being so resentful to Sypha. A grudge, I said.”

“It’s not a grudge,” said Grant. “If blood purists ever get back into power, I’ll probably be locked away in some hospital for the rest of my life, some made-up rot about a skin condition from contact with Muggles. Anything so they don’t have to look at me and be reminded that keeping the blood pure means their kids and their kids’ kids eventually end up a bunch of deformed freaks.”

I could see the pain in Grant’s face, perhaps for the first time, clearly.

“Yeah,” I said. “I keep thinking, turn the other cheek. But this isn’t that kind of thing. You turn the other cheek when someone slaps you in the face, not when they point a wand at you and try to levitate you into a fire.”

Grant stayed silent for a moment, looking at the floor of the hospital wing—through it, really, as if down to the dungeons.

“I talked to Jacinto last night after the others were asleep,” he said. “I read off a bit from Arianna Davis’ potions text about the side effects of a failed Veritaserum. Jacinto got pale, Michelle. I finally shook him up. He has no idea if he’s getting it right. He may have his mother’s university books and a lot of patience, but he doesn’t have experience. I’m afraid he’s going to kill Draco.”

“So what should we do about it? Even if he’s not the Heir of Slytherin, he’s bloody good. Fifth years have trouble with some of the spells he can do.”

“Some fifth years have trouble with Expeliarmus, but you seem to have that down.”

“Not the point,” I said. “The point is: however Jacinto got like he is, he’s dangerous.”

“And I don’t want to see him expelled,” said Grant. “Maybe he’s not a friend, but I don’t think he’s like Malfoy or Harper.”

I nodded, clutching the edges of the bed and pushing myself up, back so that I could reach the nightstand. “But if we want to stop him, we’ll need more than two wands.”

I snatched-up the copy of _The Young Defenders_ from the nightstand and held it up in front of Grant.   
  
“We need a team.”

 


	17. A Brawl Below the Quidditch Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rally the troops and go after Jacinto Neithercut.

“If you don’t want to be here, then leave.” I crossed my arms and tried to put on a tough face. Though, in retrospect, the green drapes and lamps, colouring my pale face, probably just made it look like I was about to lose my lunch. The Slytherin common room was nothing if not the exact opposite of homey.

“I don’t want to leave,” Grant said. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go. I just think your idea is daft.” He sat up. “Get together a bunch of first years, none of whom can even muster a shield charm, to take down a fellow first year.”  
  
“Why is it daft?” I said.

“Because,” hissed Grant. “Aside from all the horrible injuries we might suffer and all the school rules we’ll be breaking, we have an entire faculty of professors who we could report him to. Tell Snape. Tell McGonagall. Tell bloody Lockhart if you have to. I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance to be the hero.”

“Yeah, because nothing says ‘justice was served’ like a _Malleussempra_ to your skull.” I tried to sound firm, but part of me sensed that Grant was right. School discipline was not my job. Professors should handle it. But I couldn’t see how any of Grant’s suggestions would be helpful. Snape? No, even if he believed us, even if he discovered Jacinto’s potion and caught him red-handed, I couldn’t imagine what Snape would do. His favouritism toward Malfoy would probably end up getting Jacinto expelled, sent back to live with his wicked parents. I didn’t want that for him.

“Snape will protect Draco, and by 'protect Draco' I mean probably try and get Jacinto expelled.” I squeezed the tips of my fingers around my knees to remind myself not to knock them together. I was nervous. “He's doing something stupid, but he means well.”

“Okay, why not one of the other professors?” said Grant.

“The professors will all just tell Snape. Or tell us to tell Snape.” I sighed and shifted in my chair. “They have enough mischief to deal with. God, you think as long as this school has been here they’d have better mischief management.”

“Or at least better security,” Grant said. “After all, this thing, whatever it is, that’s been petrifying the other students? The castle is full of living portraits, ghosts, house elves—but none of them have ever seen this thing? It’s not canny. How does anythin’ sneak through Hogwarts?”

I chortled, slightly high on painkilling potion and fatigue. “Hah, hah, you said _anythin’_. You’re turning into a right proper Englishman, gov.”

“Focus, Michelle.” Grant said. “Are we telling the professors or not?”

“I’ll tell Snape,” I said at last. Growled, really. “I _did_ promise my aunt I wouldn’t run off and play Harry Potter. But I want you to do something for me.”

“Yes, Michelle?” Grant said warily.

“Jacinto. Talk to him, whenever you have a moment alone with him. Tell him what’s what.”

“He hasn’t even said a word to me since what happened with Sypha,” said Grant. “What makes you think he’ll listen to what I have to say?”

I leaned in close to Grant and said, “Because if he’s as smart as he pretends to be, he knows we’re right.”

I stood up and walked across to the fireplace, a warm crackling flame rising and falling inside it. Two other students, third years, sat on the chairs to either side reading books. I thought I heard one of them mutter _mudblood_ but they may have just been reading their texts out loud. I realized I’d moved not so much because I was cold—though I was—but because I had to hide my face from Grant. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d tell Snape, but as little faith as I had in Snape to not overreact.... I was already preparing my pitch to the rest of my dorm.  
  
Well, the ones not named Sypha Aulin.

*******

 That night, when the lot of us were in the girls' dorm and preparing for bed, I waited by the chest at the foot of mine, rummaging with one hand through my belongings and pretending to be minding my own business. I was actually minding the business of everyone else. Emma Taggart, lay on her bed jotting notes down with a quill, biting her lower lip as if working under pressure. Josie Cohen brushed her long black hair in front of a mirror opposite her bed, humming a Weird Sisters tune softly. Artemis McFly used her wand to hover two Quidditch action figures around the room, making wooshing sounds and giving color commentary on the match. Sypha was not there. Thanks to Madame Pomfrey, the hives Hex had been traced back to Sypha through no slip of the tongue on my part. I didn't know if Jacinto, Grant, or someone else perhaps, who saw the confrontation without us seeing them, had ratted her out, but regardless of the how, I learned that afternoon that Sypha had been given a detention with Hagrid.

I had been trying to find the words for my pitch all day, during classes and between. A bunch of grand ideas half formed and vanished in my brain, and before long, it was dark. My thoughts skipped a beat and I nearly jumped from where I was sitting when a loud bang to my left sounded out. Sypha had kicked open the door, and quickly trudged across the room, covered in mud and barefoot. Before the door rebounded off the wall and shut again, I saw Sypha's muddy boots discarded in the hall for the House Elves. Sypha didn't say a word and glared hexes at everyone who tried to speak to her, cutting off any conversation. She slammed the bathroom door shut, and soon I heard the shower start up full blast.   
  
Well, I had a chance for my pitch now, and Sypha's focus had restored mine.

“Guys,” I said. “I have a proposition...”

“Like _above_ or _beneath_?” Artemis said, still wooshing.

“That's a preposition,” Josie said, without looking away from the mirror. “She's trying to propose something.”

“I'm not ready to get married,” said Emma. “So keep the ring in your trunk, yeah?”

“Listen up, this is serious.” I stood up and moved pointedly behind Josie so that she could see my reflection over her shoulder. “You know why Sypha had detention tonight, right?”

“Because she hex'd the crap out of you, I'd wager,” Emma said. “Not much of a mystery. You in the hospital wing, she weedin' Hagrid's garden.”

“But we were fighting for a reason,” I said. “Look, I've been spying on Jacinto Neithercut because he's been creeping around the school grounds brewing potions—dangerous potions.”

“The American boy?” said Artemis. “He's an odd duck, sure, but what makes you think he's up to no good?I know you're scared since you're... you know...”  
  
“Muggleborn,” I said. “It's not a curse word. And it's not that he's up to no good. He thinks Draco Malfoy knows something about the heir of Slytherin and he's brewing a truth serum potion to make him confess.”

“Wait, what?” Josie said, finally turning around. “Potions that mess with your head like that aren't easy. My mum's an apothecary and she had to get like, three different certifications just to sell them.

“That's my point. It's dangerous. He's a first year like us, using his mother's university potion books. Jacinto could end up killing Malfoy. And while I'm not really fond of that ferret-faced git, I can't just let Jacinto screw up his future and possibly kill someone.”

“And why are you telling us all this?” Artemis said. “What can we do?”

“Stop him!” I blurted. “He's smart and crafty, but he can't fight off four of us at once. It takes months to brew the potion, so he won't be able to finish another one this year.”

“So,” said Emma, pushing her page aside. She hopped off the bed and walked over to me. Emma had more than six inches' height on me and the rest of the first years, and loved to remind us about it. “In other words you want us to break a bunch of school rules by attacking a student and breaking his stuff because you think he might be brewing a dangerous potion. Without any proof.”

Emma spun on one foot and flopped back onto her bed.

“ _Great_ pitch. I think I'll stay here and finish this essay.”

“I see what you're saying,” Josie said. “If he's doing that... he's just completely mad, but I can't really believe it. Even if he's arrogant enough to think he can pull it off, why does he care?”

“He's afraid the school will be shut down if the attacks continue.” I said, looking away. I had been trying—usually successfully—to see Hogwarts with new eyes since I read Lily Evans' project, and perhaps for the first time I realized how much _I_ wanted the school to stay open. “He's not on good terms with his parents. Says that's the real reason they sent him to Hogwarts instead of an American wizard school.”

“You talked to him about it, then,” Arty said, moving her action figures over her bed and then breaking the charm. Muntz and Singleton fell onto the comforter. “Did you just ask him not to brew the horrible brain eating potion?”

“I—” I froze. Sypha and I both had told him how dangerous it was, but he was determined not to listen. And, too, it seemed that Josie and Artemis would not listen to me. Artemis seemed to think it was all a big misunderstanding. And Josie, she could not understand the desperation that would provoke Jacinto to something so insane and extreme. But, I realized, I did—neither of them were Muggleborns. They didn't feel the fear that I did that whole year, that one wrong turn and I, too could be turned to stone, frozen forever—or the terror of the previous summer, when my aunt revealed herself to be part of a world my parents hated and taught me to hate as well—though not really that world, even, but an illusion of it. “Never mind.”

“What?” Josie leaned on me, wrapping arm on my shoulder. “Never mind? Michelle, I don't believe you're lying, but—”

“Why not?” said Emma. “She lied plenty to Sypha just to spy on Neithercut. Don't let anyone tell you she's not a proper Slytherin. I don't care what sort of blood she has, she's a snake.”

“You did what?” Josie said. “Michelle, is that true?”

“Look, that's not what we're on about here. What I did—”

Artemis cocked her head to the side. “So you DID do it then, didn't ya? You got stones playin' an Aulin like that.”

“No!” I said, raising my voice. This was getting out of control, and at this rate I'd be the one getting ganged up on. “Arty, Josie, it wasn't—”

“It wasn't what?” a voice as icy as the blue eyes it shared an owner with. Sypha, her lips pressed together in a bitter scowl, emerged from the bathroom in her gown, drying her hair with a towel. It was so dark, now wet, that it seemed almost black in the bedroom candle light. “It wasn't like that? Because I pretty distinctly remember that it was. Not that Jacinto didn't deserve to be spied on.”

“Sypha,” I said.

“Shut up, Coplin,” Sypha spat. “I'm not saying this because I'm your friend but because you're right. Jacinto said it right in front of me, and Danesti heard it too if you don't believe the two of us. Jacinto's brewing Veritaserum, he plans to use it on Malfoy, and all three of us tried to talk him out of it.”

Arty looked back and forth between Sypha and me. “This is heavy.”

Sypha pitched the towel into the laundry bin. “When that rumor about my parents went around, about how I was not really theirs, Jacinto was the only one who stood by me. And Malfoy... well he was never my friend but he told Pansy and Millicent that it was just a rumor and that Purebloods have to stick together.”  
  
“Yay him,” I whispered, and saw Josie crack a smile in my peripheral vision.

“The point is, I don't want Malfoy to die and I don't want Jacinto to be expelled. So in spite of being a lying sneak, I say we do what Michelle says.”

After a moment, Artemis and Josie both nodded.   
  
“Whatever, I'm out,” Emma said. “Have fun being in detention until N.E.W.T.S!”

“Tomorrow then,” I said, moving over to my bed and sitting down. “Tell nobody. After last bell we gather at the standing stones. I have a hunch about where Jacinto might have moved his potion.”

Josie put away her brush and sat beside me on the edge of my bed. “You know, Sypha's sentence structure before would mean she actually called herself a lying sneak and not you.”

“Let it go, Josie,” I said, patting her on the back. “Let it go.”

*******

Tuesday morning seemed to drag forever. I had Charms and Potions before lunch, and with the weekend's altercation between myself and Sypha on everyone's mind, there was a  tense hush over everyone—the Gryffindors not wanting to get points deducted, no doubt, as Snape would quickly do at the slightest provocation. But even the other Slytherins didn't want to talk about it. Usually when Snape called my name for an answer, the breathed _mudblood_ s were quick to follow, and when Sypha misidentified which spherical part of a newt is used in a Heatsight potion, the usual tittering from the class was stifled without a word from Snape.

I think everyone knew there was more to what happened than a spat between me and Sypha, though nobody wanted to bring it up. Most of the class brushed past me on the way out of Snape's class-dungeon as I slowed down to wait for Grant to keep up.

“Did you talk to Jacinto?” I said as we synced our walking speeds.  
  
“I talked _at_ him. He's bloody good at tuning people out when he wants to. I think he hit himself with some tranquilizer spell because as soon as it was lights out, he was out cold.”

“What about this morning?” I ventured.  
  
“Gone before I woke up.”

“Damn it.” So there was no more talk to be had. It would be settled with spells. I took a deep breath and began thinking about how to confront Jacinto, the approach to actually fighting him. Jacinto had never joined the dueling club. Given how he most always had top marks and studied harder than anyone else in Grant's dorm, he probably wasn't ignoring dueling practice because he didn't want to learn. The boy was reading Tolstoy at eleven, for Merlin's sake. If he wasn't at dueling practice it was because he didn't think he had anything to learn—or perhaps because he didn't want the teachers to see how advanced he was compared to other first years. That second possibility was chilling.

Among the group of myself, Grant, Artemis, Josie, and Sypha there were just two of us who could even pull off _Expelliarmus_ , three that I knew of who could muster the Parrying Charm, and a big nil that could Stun. I began to think we were less Young Defenders and more Young Blunderers—and then, it hit me.

“The Young Defenders,” I said.

“What about them?” Grant started down a short case of steps, looking back when he realized I'd stopped at the top.   
  
I rejoined him at a faster pace. “It just occurred to me. Part of what makes the Young Defenders a better team in the book is they're all from different houses. The way we're sorted out by, what, tendencies, general attitudes. We group like people together, we start thinking in the same ways.”

“I assure you I think nothing like Harper or Malfoy,” said Grant.

“No, not that. But we're all, what, sneaky, cunning, supposedly. We're Slytherins, we use hexes and jinxes, teach them to each other to mess with Gryffindors.” I felt altogether too proud of myself, feeling a smile stretch across my face. “The other houses tend to pass different spells around because the students in them think the same as each other. It's not that any House is better than the others, we're just good at different things.”

“What's Hufflepuff good at?” said Grant.

“Don't undermine my point, Danesti.”

“Okay, fine, so different houses are better and different spells. And?”   
  
“So, we need to get people who aren't Slytherins in on this.” I had someone in mind, though I wasn't sure if his House was what made me think of him. “People we trust not to rat us out.”

“Michelle, I barely talk to anyone who isn't you, let alone anyone from other Houses.” He grimaced. “There is a favor I could call in.”

“Someone owes you a favor?” I blinked. “What, did you become Don of the Hogwarts Mafia while I was in the hospital?”

“I don't really want to have this talk,” Grant said. “If you have someone in mind, find them at lunch.”

 As dozens of students filled up the Great Hall and began taking their places at the students' tables, I scanned the Ravenclaw side of the room, trying to pick out Endymion Summerby from the sea of blue scarves. When I finally saw him by way of his messy hair, I slid through the room until I got in close and grabbed his hand.

“Endy!”

“Michelle?” he stared at me perplexed. “I heard you were in the hospital. Still in pain?”

“Not much. Listen, I want to talk to you about something. Could you meet me at the Stone Circle after last bell?”

“What?” Endymion leaned in close—the echo of the Great Hall made it hard for nuance to be understood. “Why?”

“It's important,” I said. “I'll explain there.”

*******

The Stone Circle, shaded from the afternoon sun, was still cool in the March air. My hands were in mittens, yet still cold enough that I was rubbing them together to keep warm. The girls from my dorm, minus Emma, had already arrived. I saw Grant appear at the far end of the bridge, identifiable even at a distance for his pale skin. He was accompanied by a Hufflepuff girl with clipped brown hair, who seemed more than a bit bemused at the whole deal. As they approached my end of the bridge, I recognized the girl—a second year student from the Dueling Club who had actually defeated Luna Lovegood after my failure. Grant got there a step or two before her, and then held out a hand to introduce us.

“Michelle, this is Heather,” he said.   
  
I shook her hand. “Uh, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah!” she said. “I had no idea there were Muggleborns in Slytherin.”

“Just two of us,” I said derisively. I kept looking over her shoulder, hoping that Endymion would trot down the bridge soon. “Did Grant tell you why he invited you?”

“He said that American boy was up to no good.” Heather looked at Grant. “I guess I'm taking your word for it, but I really don't see what the point of all this is. He's one first-year, does it really take... one, two three, four, five, six—SIX of us? It seems like overkill.”

“It's not,” Sypha said, hopping down from the rock she'd been standing on. “Jacinto is not normal. He's smart, he knows spells that fifth years have trouble with. Six of us might not be enough.”

“What about seven?”

My gaze snapped from Sypha's face to the bridge. Endy Summerby jogged up the path holding his robes wrapped in his arms. But he hadn't been there just a moment ago!

“How did you do that?” I said.

“Something clever John came up with,” he said. John Edgecombe, his friend from before Hogwarts. “Snuck in his hunting cloak from home and we sewed a set of school robes onto the reverse.”  
  
He grinned, then threw his robe back on, inside out. Instead of the typical blue lining of a Ravenclaw robe, Endy suddenly existed as just a head, floating over a shimmering, translucent body. “If you ever need anything from Hogsmeade, just ask. John sneaks down there with his cousin Marietta every chance he gets.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Sypha said drolly. “Who are **_you_** now?”

I introduced Endy to the rest of the students there. We still had no Gryffindors with us, but I couldn't think of a one that would help us. I didn't know any of them by name but Weasley, and her helping a Slytherin was absurd as much as her family hated the House of the snake. Not that I could blame them too much when Draco and Snape were their main points of contact with it.

“Michelle,” Josie said. “You said you had a hunch as to where Jacinto moved his potion. Where would that be?”

“The same day Grant and I first discovered it,” I said. “Something happened at the Quidditch stadium. The Gryffindor vs Slytherin game with the rogue bludger that broke Potter's arm and smashed up a bunch of support columns beneath the stands.”

“I remember that,” Sypha said. “Honestly when even inanimate objects want to kill him, I have to think the rumors about Potter's arrogance are true.”

“Besides the point,” I said. “Look, Grant and I practiced dueling down there once because we didn't think we'd be interrupted. And we weren't. No student or staff normally goes down there. Any that do, it would probably be to repair the damage. Someone hiding a potion on say, the opposite side of the stadium from the damage could be undetected for months.”

“Those are good points,” Grant said. “But you're just guessing.”

“Right, but it's an educated guess. This is how Jacinto thinks. The stadium is where we were when we noticed him in the grove. Who'd expect him to move it there, below the pitch? Plus the grove and the pitch are places he can observe from here. And here happens to be where he spends most of his free time, according to Sypha.”  
  
“We need to back up,” Endy said. “Jacinto's brewing a potion? It wouldn't happen to be Veritaserum, would it?”

“How did you know that?” Sypha said.

Endy shrugged. “He asked me to get him ginseng from the garden at the top of Ravenclaw tower. I looked up what potions he might be using it to make later on, and the only one that'd get you freaked out enough to put out a call to arms is... Veritaserum.”

“You didn't tell him what we were doing?” Artemis said.

“Doesn't matter,” Endy said. “I'm in. One of my uncles... he knew some Death Eaters back during the war and was arrested because the Ministry thought he was one of them. He got a botched dose of Veritaserum and said he did all sorts of things. He spent five years in Azkaban because some adult at the Ministry messed up a potion. If that's really what Neithercut is doing, I'll help you.”

“Then we'd better get going,” Heather said. “Or they're going to wonder what the lot of us are doing out here freezing our arses off.”

*******

The stadium was quiet and the pitch deserted. It was easy enough to slip in to the stadium—whoever had last use it had failed to re enchant the lock against _Alohamora._ It was eerie. Quidditch had taken a back seat this year, since the far more pressing concern of petrified cats, ghosts, and students had made sports rivalries seem less relevant. Even though practises and games were still happening, they were attended, it seemed, more out of obligation than desire.

Grant and I were the first down the ladder into the understructure. Going from the warm sun into the chill of underground helped me focus on the now, at least. Endy, Heather, and the rest of my dorm followed. Heather raised her wand into the darkness and whispered _Lumos_ , a sphere of radiance appearing at the end of her wand. There was no sound but our breathing and the muted whistle of March winds.   
  
“Keep your eyes open,” I said to everyone. “And try to focus. The last time Jacinto put Apathy on the hiding place.”

Endy slipped to the side, and pulled up the hood of his cloak, his head now as invisible as the rest of him, save a small opening through which I could see his nose and mouth. Where the light of Heather's spell wasn't hitting the cloak, he might as well have been completely invisible. Despite my pretense of being the leader, nobody really followed me. We spread out, with Sypha walking slightly ahead in a confident stride, Heather at her side to shine light. Josie and Artemis matched pace with me, while Grant trailed Sypha, his skin turning a dull grey from his talent, to better blend in with the old wood and cool dirt.

We'd completed maybe a quarter of our sweep around the pitch when a warm light up ahead flickered, and a soft sound of thin liquid boiling grew, echoed, and resolved into the potion set up. It wasn't covered with the Apathy—everyone saw it, even the perpetually distracted Josie. It wasn't really even hidden beyond being in a place few people visited. The pewter boiler did not contain the same foul green stuff this time, but a cloudy white liquid, like salt water.

“You all must really be afraid of me going all Seven Samurai like this.”   
  
Jacinto stepped from the edge of the shadows of the boiler into the light. His wand moving from Sypha to me and back.

“Where did Summerby go?” Jacinto said. “I know I saw him on the cliff with you. If he thinks he can circle around back then he must have forgotten just how much damage Potter and Malfoy did to this place.”

“We just want you to stop,” I said. “But we're not asking. Stop, or we'll fight, period.”

“You're going to get yourself expelled,” Josie said. “This isn't a potion you can just homebrew. It's dangerous. You'll fail.”

“I did fail,” Jacinto said. “Three times. Every time I screwed up I threw the potion out and started over. I'm not using this until I have it right, so whatever you think is going to happen, you're wrong.”

“It's not that simple. You can think you've gotten everything right and it could still be wrong.” I raised my own wand now, trying not to tremble, at least long enough to aim. “I don't want this school to shut down any more than you do. I'm finished running from my magic.”

“I'm not finished running from my parents,” Jacinto said sadly. “So if you'll leave me alone—”

“Damn it, Jacinto!” Sypha shrieked. “Where will you run if you get expelled? You think Beauxbaxons will take you after you rot someone's brain? _Sprechen sie deutsch_? If not, Durmstrang isn't happening.”

“Durmstrang is in Norway,” Josie whispered.  
  
“Really not important,” I said.

“I know what I'm doing. I followed the recipe to the letter.” Jacinto raised his wand. “I can't believe you're helping Michelle after what she did Sypha, but I'm not stopping!”  
  
For the second time, I saw Jacinto's calm demeanor crack. He was more desperate than I knew. Talk was doing nothing but upsetting him more. It was time to fight, it seemed.

“Sypha is here because she cares about you,” I said. “Even if you don't get it.”  
  
I took a deep breath.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ The red beam jumped from my wand, but Jacinto must have noticed me tense because he was already out of the way—he jumped behind a support column. Sypha barked for everyone to spread out, dropping to a crouch at the foot of another pillar.

“Coplin, take cover,” she hissed. When Jacinto started to move, to fall back to another pillar, she popped up muttering and aimed her wand at him. “... _levi-OH-Sa!_ ”

Jacinto came up off the ground, much to my surprise, and Sypha's and while I slinked next to a column, Sypha jerked her wand wide to the right, slamming Jacinto in to one of the support beams. The wood cracking was so loud that Sypha must have lost focus—Jacinto fell to the ground. Grant slid into cover near me, and Heather, the second year, trained her wand on him. _“Locomotor Wibbly!”_

A spiral strand of violet light shot towards Jacinto, but he was already pushing himself up. His wand clutched tightly in his left hand, he spat a blade of grass and cast a Parrying Charm, the Jelly-Legs Jinx from Heather ricocheting off his parry and whirling over my head. I heard it strike something, and Endymion grunted as he pitched forward into the dirt.   
  
If Jacinto noticed, he didn't say anything: he was already rolling behind another beam. The fight had pressed forward enough that I had a clear shot at the potion itself. I took a breath and focused on the bubbling liquid.   
  
“ _Flipendo_!” I called, the golden blast wave bursting from my wand.   
  
Then Jacinto clambered over the cross beam between his cover and the potion, practically throwing himself on it.

“ _PROTEGO!_ ” he growled; his wand flashed and my spell sputtered out as it crashed against his forcefield.

“No way!” Heather breathed. She aimed again. “ _Petrificus Totalus_!”  
  
There was a spark against Jacinto's shield charm, and he quickly retaliated, jabbing his wand forward as though he were a rapier. “ _FLIPENDO!_ ”

The blast hit Heather square in the chest and she flew back into one of the main support columns, a crunch echoing through the rafters upon impact. I stood up to fire at him while he was looking at Heather, sweat beading on my nose and forehead despite the cold. _“Expelliarmus!”_

My spell hit the burner instead of the boy, and the fire rune expelled a puff of smoke in the shape of a sword. Cheeky little calcinator. Before I could fire again, Sypha pulled herself to the top of a crossbeam near her. _“Expelliarmus!”_ she tried.  
  
“ _STUPEFY!_ ” Jacinto responded—the two jets of red light collided in the air, sparks spraying my face until I ducked back behind cover. In the bright red light I saw Josie and Artemis come out from their cover, and hit the ground together, their wands aimed at Jacinto.   
  
“FLIPENDO!” they shouted in unison. The tips of their wands sparked so close together that the spells combined sending a huge wave of force through the beams and rafters. Columns splintered and cracked, and Jacinto shot back, slamming through the crossbeam.

His wand was still clutched firmly in his hand, though... which meant.

I looked up just in time to see Sypha slump down from her perch, unconscious, red electricity dancing down her arm as she fell into the damp dirt. This was going no place good quick. I couldn't see him, but Grant's voice called out incantations, even as Jacinto called out two parries and then a nother Shield.   
  
“How can he be so advanced?” Josie said, beginning to stand.   
  
Before I could answer I heard Jacinto call out a leglock jinx, and popped up from cover in time to see Grant tumble onto his back. Jacinto was fast, dammit. He spoke fast and made spell motions fast. I thought of the simplest spell motion that I could actually pull off consistently, surprised to see my breath in the cold when I was drenched in sweat.  
  
Wait a minute. Cold.

I whirled my wand in a spiral and popped out from behind cover. “ _Cryopagos!_ ”

A burst of frost exploded from my wand—maybe I'd wound up a bit too much—covering the understructure in a thin layer of ice. Jacinto quickly backtracked to get away from the encroaching ice, his robe and boots not completely avoiding the blast.  
  
Before I could follow it up, he had another Shield up. I was tired but Jacinto was exhausted. He could hardly focus, it looked like to keep the shield up.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” I shouted.

The red beam slammed into his shield, which flickered. I saw Jacinto's nose had started to bleed. He couldn't keep this up, though neither could I. I hoped Josie and Artemis would pull through. I was close enough I could hardly miss the potion if I sent a spell at it, the distance couldn't have been more than a couple yards. But I had to keep my attention on Jacinto or he'd blast me as soon as I was distracted.

“ _Flipendo!_ ” I said weakly. The spell shot from my wand, and Jacinto dropped his Shield.   
  
“ _Muntio_!” As the sphere of parrying energy formed, he batted lazily upward. My spell flew into the rafters, hitting a frozen support beam, and cracking it in half. A bunch of creaks and snaps echoed above us through the Hufflepuff bleachers...

“No, Michelle!” Jacinto said—his voice losing its angry edge. “ _Flipendo!_ ”

One last Knockback Jinx sped across the gap between Jacinto and me, throwing me back into Josie and Artemis as we all tumbled to the ground. Then so did the stands, or at least pieces of them. Rafters and beams onto the spot where I had been standing, the debris separating me from Jacinto, and both of us from the potion. I stood up to get to it, and saw Jacinto on the other side of the dust trying to do the same. My wand... where did my wand go? I must have dropped it when he hit me. 

I scrambled over the debris, scraping an arm along a broken plank in the process, but Jacinto and his long legs were making better progress. He had saved me from being crushed to death by falling arena seating but at this rate I wouldn't save him from. He turned and pointed his wand at me through the smoke, the blood from his nose now down to his chin. He didn't want to cast another spell, maybe even couldn't as many as he'd fired off defending himself.

“Don't,” I said. “You're bleeding.”

  
“Then step back, Coplin. Let me take my potion and—”

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

The red beam caught Jacinto in the hip, and he winced a moment before staggering back and falling unconscious on the ground. The beam had come from an odd patch of dirt that began to crawl forward, though only with hands.  
  
“Endy!” I said.   
  
“Should have used a Jelly-Arms Jinx too,” he said, dropping his wand on the dirt. I moved over and collapsed beside him, draping the Demiguise fur over my legs to get a bit warmer and letting Endy rest his head on my shoulder. I couldn't remember the counter curse for the Jelly Legs Jinx, but I figured it wouldn't last that long.

Grant pulled himself over to Jacinto and checked his pulse. I tensed up, but when Grant relaxed, I breathed that proverbial sigh of relief.

Artemis busied herself trying to wake up Sypha while Josie checked Heather for a concussion.

“I didn't hit my head,” she protested. “I just didn't feel like getting up after that.”

“You're going to be sore in the morning though,” Josie said. “Take it easy. We have class tomorrow.”

As the curses we'd cast and had cast on us started to wear off and we were left with just aches and tingling, I silently prayed that Wednesday would never come. When Artemis found my wand in the rubble, I reached over and tipped the hot potion into the dirt, watching the steam rise in the waning light.


	18. A Sign of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Headmaster cuts a deal.

It took three of us—myself, Grant, and Josie—to carry the limp Jacinto out of the quidditch pitch. Endy’s legs were still a bit too wobbly from the Jelly Legs Jinx to manage the weight and Sypha, nursing a bruise on her head, thought herself likely to drop him. Heather and Artemis had gone on ahead to make sure the coast was clear, the former expressing a desire to hastily make herself scarce. It was already well after curfew, and while Slytherin could afford to lose points, Hufflepuff was not in such good shape.   
  
Artemis signaled the all clear and the three of us carrying Jacinto shoved him up onto the grass of the pitch, then one by one climbed up ourselves. We were already wet and muddy. A little more mud wouldn’t hurt us.

“Wait a minute,” Grant said, looking back. “We left footprints on the rafters getting up here. He ducked down and pointed at the stains.

“ _Scourgify.”_ A stream of soapy bubbles shot out of his wand, dissolving the mud.  
  
We lifted Jacinto up again and rounded the corner that led beneath the bleachers and out of the pitch. I was ahead, in front of Josie and Grant, with the unconscious Jacinto’s arms dangling at my sides and his head resting uncomfortably on my right shoulder. A shock of his auburn hair, smelling strongly of sweat and weakly of shampoo, dangled in front of my face making it hard to see. I noticed Endy stop suddenly, but thought little of it until I blew away a lock and saw Artemis standing in the glow of a self-lighting torch.  
  
Standing unnervingly still, a meter or two behind Heather, who was equally still. They’d both been hit with a petrification! But neither of them were Muggleborn. They wouldn’t have been victims of the Heir of Slytherin, could they?

I froze without a word, but Josie and Grant, not noticing, kept walking, bumping into me from behind and walking on my ankles. It was enough to dislodge Jacinto, and the unconscious alchemist tumbled face-first into the grass.

“Michelle,” Grant said. “Why did you stop?”  
  
“Sssh!” I held up one hand to signal for everyone to stop, even as I pulled my wand from its sleeve with the other. “Who’s there?”

Out of the shadows cast against the light of the torch, several hooded figures emerged, inching into the light until I could see their faces. Professor Snape, Madam Hooch, and behind them, frowning deeply, was Dumbledore.   
  
“Oh, bollocks,” Grant said.

It wasn’t the Heir. It was _Petrificus Totalus_ that had stopped Arty and Heather.

Snape grabbed at his robe fussily as he stomped forward.

“Oh bollocks indeed,” he said. Snape knelt, rolled Jacinto over, and checked his neck for a pulse. After a moment, Snape stood. “The boy’s alive.”

“Of course he’s alive, Professor Snape,” said Dumbledore. The ancient headmaster looked weary, the dim light casting deep shadows on his already much-wrinkled forehead. I tugged at my sleeves trying to think of an explanation for this, but only could offer a weak apology.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Jacinto, he was making this.”  
  
I held out Jacinto’s flask, now empty save for a few small drops. Sypha muttered something, and a glance showed me her face was red with anger, but silence and lies wouldn’t get us anywhere at this point.   
  
“It’s much too late and cold to talk about these matters out here,” Dumbledore said. “Madam Hooch, if you would, please take Mr. Neithercut to the hospital wing. Severus and I will take care of the rest.”

  
*******

Not wanting to cram seven students plus himself and Snape into his tower office, Dumbledore brought the lot of us to the Great Hall. The room was still full of the smells of dinner, and I realized that I was both extremely hungry and in no mood to eat. Dumbledore made us spill about the events of the evening, only speaking to clarify things when some of us rushed ahead of ourselves and to politely quiet Snape. For his part, Snape expressed skepticism at every opportunity, demanded to know why we had not come to him, and declared, finally, that there would likely be yet more expulsions ‘thanks to me’.   
  
That last part made me angry. Daniel Rosier tossing me across the room with his wand, for no other reason than my supposed blood impurity, seemed so long ago, much longer than it was—but Snape’s casually blaming me for a bully getting what was rightfully his brought the terror of that day rushing back, and with it the barely restrained urge to spit in his greasy hair. But I was already in enough trouble, and Snape’s smirk unnerved me. I wondered if he could read my mind and see how much I hated him. I wondered, was there a spell that could do that?

Grant, Josie, Artie, Heather, and even Sypha answered questions in short, clipped bursts of words, shifting the impetus to me as much as possible. None of them were lying exactly, yet every time my name was mentioned, it was like a screwdriver, twisting me further and further into the plank of guilt. Yeah, it was my suspicion and my plan, but they had participated of their own free will, I hadn’t forced them.

They’d all _agreed._

Only Endy, when he was called to speak, didn’t shift blame. He stopped short of lying for my sake, but told them how Jacinto wanted him to take potion ingredients from Ravenclaw tower, and how Endy had put two and two together on his own. When Dumbledore was done, Snape rose.  
  
“So what shall we do with them?” the potions master said.  
  
“Do with them?” Dumbledore eyed Snape skeptically. “For now we shall do nothing. You must start by verifying the contents of this vial—determine if it is really Veritaserum, or a failed facsimile thereof. We also must get Jacinto’s side of the story, and speak to Professors Flitwick and Sprout about their students involvement.”

“I think we have more than enough information,” Snape said.

“A certain boy and his friends thought they had enough information last year,” Dumbledore said, “and suspected you of the crimes the late Professor Quirrrel committed.”

“That’s not comparable, headmaster!” said Snape. “Just like Potter and his friends, Coplin has taken the safety of the student body into her own hands, and it’s ended with students being hurt.”  
  
“Do not test me, Severus,” Dumbledore hissed, his tone unusually sharp, his voice raised. “Instead, try testing what remains of that potion.”

Snape’s already-sallow face grew paler. “Of course, Professor Dumbledore.”  
  
Snape turned and strode out of the Great Hall, the flask clutched tightly in his left hand.

“As for the rest of you,” Dumbledore said, “proceed to your dorms and get some rest. It’s dangerous to wander the halls at night.”

 

*******

 

Dumbledore summoned some house elves and told them to prepare some food for us and take it to our common rooms. The silence was weighty as we left the warm light of the Great Hall into the cool moon-lit corridors. Endy and Heather split off with hardly a word, each heading to their dorms, leaving us Slytherins alone. The trek down to the dungeon finally made my body feel the whole weight of the afternoon and evening. We’d taken a bunch of hits from spells or the things spells sent us flying into; and we’d done a lot of heavy lifting. In short, we were wiped.   
  
A plate of sandwiches and some cups of lemonade awaited us in front of the Slytherin fireplace; I quickly scarfed down a turkey-and-ham and washed it away before heading off to get ready for bed. Emma was fast asleep, a long guttural snore becoming white noise in my foggy head. Even Sypha, though clearly still livid at me for snitching to the headmaster, could not muster the energy to antagonize me. It wasn’t as late as it felt like—fifteen past eleven by the clock on the wall—but even so I had no trouble drifting off to sleep, scarcely wasting a worry for what my punishment tomorrow might be, or even noticing when Artemis and Josie slipped into the room sometime after I had drifted off.

 

*******

 

The following morning I awoke begging God for leniency—for myself and my friends, to be sure, but also for Jacinto Neithercut. He had attempted to do something foolish, but his reasons seemed so clear. The petrification of students meant the school could close. The school closing would result in him going back America, back to the care of his parents. His parents were blood purists, but Jacinto, for some reason was not, and that had driven a wedge between them—just as magic had driven a wedge between me and my parents. Just as his appearance had driven a wedge between Grant and his. And for that, I prayed the headmaster would not expel him—or us.

My only class that morning was Herbology, after which I was to report to Flitwick’s Charms classroom—it was much closer to both the Great Hall and Dumbledore’s office than Professor Sprout or Snape’s classroom, which made it the most convenient place for everyone to gather in the middle of a busy school day. Once the seven students were seated, Flitwick, Sprout, and Snape raised their wands, casting spells to soundproof the room, and Dumbledore walked to the head of the room, moving aside the very tall chair that Flitwick normally sat on and leaning on the podium where the tiny Charms Master often kept open spellbooks.

“An unsanctioned duel—it would be more accurate to call it a brawl—such as the one the seven of you and Mr. Neithercut engaged in last night, would normally be grounds for severe reprimand. Detentions would be handed down and expulsions would be considered. However, circumstances are not normal. The events of this school year have created a climate of fear among the student body—fear not entirely unwarranted, I might add. It was that fear that motivated Mr. Neithercut’s misguided actions, and it was initially that same fear that led one of you in particular to suspect him of far worse misdeeds than those of which he was actually guilty.”

My face got hot, undoubtedly blood red with embarrassment.

“In all this, the students acted without properly informing and consulting professors or prefects at any step in the process, and for that, I must put much of the blame on myself.”

“I’m sorry?” Sprout said, obviously taken aback. “Yourself, Headmaster?”

“It’s true,” Dumbledore said. “I have been grieved and preoccupied by the attacks—and sadly, the bureaucracy troubles at the Ministry the attacks have inspired—that not nearly enough time has been spent paying attention to other things of import here at Hogwarts.”

He turned to Snape. “I also feel that some of the blame rests on your shoulders, Professor Snape.”

Snape’s head snapped to the side, his features darkening. He opened his mouth to protest, but Dumbledore cut him off.

“Yes,” said the headmaster. “Your skills as a Potions Master are unquestioned, Professor Snape, but your performance as a head of house has been sorely lacking. I understand that as recently as December, the password to the Slytherin Common Room was ‘pure blood’. While I’m certain you did not choose that yourself, your tolerance for the intolerance of some of your charges is frankly intolerable. You’ve created a culture of hostility and suspicion within Slytherin that has left Miss Coplin wary of confiding anything in you. And while my distraction has prevented me from correcting this oversight, the onus for your job performance rests on nobody but you.”

Flitwick and Sprout both gaped, and when I surveyed the other students, the expression was mirrored. Snape’s usually gaunt face was notably redder, his mouth trembling with barely-masked indignation and I thought he would explode on the headmaster. Remarkably, he remained composed.   
  
“I’ll take that into consideration,” he said tersely. “You know the fine line I must walk, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore merely nodded, and it was clear from their expressions that Flitwick and Sprout were just as baffled as the seven of us.

“As for your culpability,” said Dumbledore, looking each student in the eye before finally resting his gaze on me. “Professor Snape’s examinations have determined that the potion in Jacinto Neithercut’s flask was an unfinished Veritaserum. I spoke with Jacinto before this meeting and he confirmed what you all told me, including that the potion was intended to be used on Draco Malfoy.”

“I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said, leaning down, seeming somehow—and quite suddenly—diminished, “that I must place burden on you much greater than a set of detentions. Some of you may have heard that the Ministry of Magic wishes to remove me as Headmaster of this school, and I fear that further gossip on this matter will only make that outcome more likely. Therefore I must ask you to swear to keep what is said here a secret and speak of it to nobody as long as I retain my position as Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“I swear!” Sypha said quickly. “If you promise not to expel Jacinto.”

“Same here!” Grant said.  
  
I winced, biting into my upper lip. I was not nearly as fond of Jacinto as Sypha and Grant were. I didn’t want him expelled, but after seeing him nearly take down seven of us—

“Please allow me to finish,” Dumbledore said. “Jacinto will not be expelled. He will, however, be placed on academic probation, and his activities will be heavily monitored. For the protection of Draco Malfoy, I have, with Jacinto’s consent, confiscated the university potions text and removed the knowledge of how to brew Veritaserum from Jacinto’s memory.

“For the actions of Josie Cohen, Artemis McFly, Sypha Aulin, Grand Danesti, and Michelle Coplin, I have awarded 50 Points to Slytherin. Your failure to pursue the proper channels of authority was itself caused by that authority’s failure to act properly.”   
  
Dumbledore cast a sidelong glance at Snape.   
  
“However, the actions of Jacinto and the spying and intrigue that went on between him and Ms. Coplin can’t be ignored, and for these things I subtract 45 points from Slytherin.”

He turned to Endy. “For your cool head and initiative, Mr. Summerby, I award 50 points to Ravenclaw. And for your strength in doing what was right, Ms. Coleman, I award 50 points to Hufflepuff. All of these awards will be forfeit should any of you speak of these events beyond this room.”

The three professors each looked at each other in turn. Snape seemed the most displeased, but there was clear unease on the faces of Flitwick and Sprout as well, the latter digging beneath her nails as if to remove soil and the former tapping his wand against his own leg.  
  
“If there’s no further questions or comments,” Dumbledore said after a moment of bemused silence, “then we shall all be dismissed to lunch.”

*******

At lunch I only nibbled, mulling over the Headmaster’s decision. So much I didn’t understand—Dumbledore was always described by my aunt as a great man. It wasn’t so many months before that she’d told me _you won’t find a better man, Wizard or Muggle,_ _than Albus Dumbledore._ Yet that very day I had seen him bargain with students, offer a carrot and a stick, to cover up something that he feared would cause him to lose his job. I’d never questioned the wisdom received from Amanda—that Dumbledore was a Good Guy. After all, the racists in Slytherin house hated him, and though I’d never really heard him speak of religious matters, he had a warmth and compassion, not to mention whimsy, about him that made me think of him as a sort of colour-blind Santa Claus. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was far less my desire for Jacinto to be punished that left me uneasy about the events in Flitwick’s classroom, and far more about how diminished and human the Headmaster seemed, how fallible.

“Michelle?” a white, five-pronged blob waved in front of my face; I focused my eyes on Grant’s hand before batting it away.  
  
“Are you okay?” he said.

“Fine. Just lost in thought. I just didn’t expect that tribunal thing being mostly Dumbledore asking **us** to cover his arse.”

Grant laughed. “You’re complaining about getting off basically Scott free?”

“No,” I said. “Just trying to understand.”

“Well did you hear me, what I just said before? Davis is looking for you.” Grant motioned toward the back of the Great Hall, where that prefect, Arianna Davis, stood holding a ballot box decorated in silver snakes and Slytherin greens. The Dueling Club president vote! I’d entirely forgotten about that—in fact I entirely stopped caring once the main thing of stopping Jacinto took precedence. When Arianna finally saw me, she motioned for me to head over there. I may have said a swear word before I quickly threw back a gulp of pumpkin juice and ran over to the place where the crowd was gathered.

“What’s going on?” I said as I got there. “Am I supposed to make a concession speech or something?”

Davis stared at me like I’d just cast a spell in the middle of Tesco.

“Concession?” she said, her voice surprisingly raspy. “Coplin, you won. I think half of these votes for you are ironic, because they just wrote the ‘the m-word’ on the ballot, but you’re the only Muggleborn in the race, so I’m counting it.”

“No bloody way!” It took me a moment to realize that those words were my own. “This isn’t a joke?”

“I wish,” Arianna said. “Keeping the gits off of you is going to be a full time job now, for gadsakes. If you didn’t think you had a chance then why did you run in the first place?”  
  
“Because I’m a masochist,” I said. “That must be it.”

“Well you’d better either give it up or get ready, because we’re meeting tomorrow.”

 

*******

Grant didn’t believe it either, echoing pretty much the same sentiment. His voice filled with eager hope. “Does this mean you get to boss Malfoy around?”

“Only on Thursdays,” I said. “Which is better than no days.” 

By this time the lunch hour was over and the two of us were stuck together shoulder-to-shoulder filing out of the Great Hall. Our next class was Potions in the dungeon, and I expected Snape to be none too happy with Grant, Josie, Spyha, Artie, and myself—literally half the Slytherin class of ’92 was now on his hit list.   
  
But if he was still angry with us then he did a remarkable job of redirecting that emotion to the Gryffindors, particularly Ginny Weasley. She was nearly in tears at one point, hardly seeming the steely, smug snake in that classroom that she had in the hallway that night months before. Of course we’d all learn the reason for that eventually.

As we left the dungeon, an elf grabbed at my sleeve and then at Grant’s. “Madame Pomfrey sent Demmy to find you, Chelley Coplin and Grant Dynasty. Said to give you a message, she did. ‘Jacinto Nobber-Cut wants to see you in the Hospital Wing, he does.”

I looked at Grant and shrugged. “Uh, thanks Demmy. We’ll go see Jacinto I guess, just go tell Pomfrey we’re on our way.”

In a flash Demmy the house elf vanished.

Grant and I made our way through the spiraling staircase and across the courtyard, slipping into the infirmary before the hall outside filled with the crowds that often gathered to trade charms and gossip about the victims. Collin Creevy and Justin Fitch-Fletchly lay motionless in beds. The ghost Nearly-Headless Nick, also petrified, was trussed up in some strange scientific equipment that Ministry researches had brought in while I recovered from the suit-of-hives hex. In the corner, by a cat’s cradle, Argus Filch stood over the petrified form of Mrs. Norris, wielding a mop as if to guard the beast from vengeful students.

Jacinto was cordoned off behind a privacy curtain in the corner, though I thought it was most likely there to shield him from the sight of petrified students. When we went behind it, Madame Pomfrey was quickly stirring a small potion cup with a tiny spoon. She handed it to him. “Drink this.”

Jacinto sniffed it, then quaffed the contents of the cup, making a face.   
  
Nobody said anything for a moment, until Pomfrey turned to Grant and me. “I’ll step outside, but you had better not start fighting again.”

When Pomfrey had gone, Jacinto closed his eyes. He looked a lot more peaceful than I’d seen him in quite a while—even calmer, I thought, than his usual unflappable demeanour. I wondered if it was the medicine, or if Dumbledore had taken more than just the memory of how to brew a potion.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Jacinto said.   
  
“Thank us?” Grant said. “We nearly got you expelled.”

“And you might have saved my life,” said Jacinto. “Summerby hit me with that stunner, but he just winged me. That’s not something that puts you out all night. Pomfrey said with all the spells and wards I’ve been casting, and the mental strain of brewing that potion—on top of all my studies—have just been wearing me out. I guess I’m so used to pushing myself I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“I didn’t know,” I said. “You always seemed so calm when you weren’t angry.”

“I’m always angry,” Jacinto said. “I need to work on that. There’s some stuff I didn’t—couldn’t—even tell Professor Dumbledore, but God, I have to get it off my chest. I mean you have to be wondering right? Why I know spells above my level and… stuff? I took on seven of you and nearly won.”

“Don’t rub it in,” I said, crossing my arms.

“I’m not rubbing it in. I cheated. I mean, sort of. Ugh.” He rubbed his temples. “But I can’t keep cheating, because it’s putting too much stress on me. I need to learn to cast Walk before I can cast Run, if you catch my meaning. I’m not good at trusting people, so I want you to promise to keep something a secret. It’s a secret to everybody.”

I wondered if he had meant to make that reference, given his relatively strong knowledge of Muggle-things compared to a lot of pure-bloods.

“For how long?” I said.

“Until I say so,” Jacinto snapped. “Sorry. This is serious, it could get me—”

He paused, looked out the window behind his bed, and for the first time the relief of a much deeper pain than I could have imagined began to show, if only for a second, on his profile. “It could get me in a lot of trouble with my parents.”

I leaned in; I knew the pain he was feeling—the pain and terror that had driven me to lock myself in the guest room at Amanda’s house last August. “I promise. I won’t tell a soul. “

“Grant,” Jacinto said. “Please. It’s not gossip, just something I need someone to hear.”

Grant turned. “I’m going to step out. I don’t want to know. It’s not my place and secrets are dangerous.”

The curtain slipped shut behind Grant and I moved a bit closer to Jacinto. He didn’t have a wand nearby, and though my own was tucked away in my book bag, I could cast a knockback jinx wand-free if he tried anything. But I didn’t think he would.

“Do you know what a pensieve is?” he said.   
  
“No.”

“It’s a sort of… dish. An enchanted bowl that you can use to help you think. Remove or copy thoughts and memories out of your head and dump them into the pensieve, and you can view a sort of replay of them, perhaps notice things you only subconsciously picked up on the first time.”

“That’s incredible,” I said. Though I was mostly thinking of memories I’d want NOT to relive, ever.

“My mother had one,” he continued. “When I was very little, maybe four or five, I found it in her cabinet and I used it, in a sense. I didn’t know what it was, but there was an accident and I ended up absorbing some of her memories into my own head. Some of it was her school days, learning spells. Some of it was things she’d rather forget. Bad days. Bad things she’d done.”

I felt colder all of a sudden.  
  
After a moment of mulling over his words, Jacinto sighed. “My mother and father aren’t good people. I didn’t understand what had happened when I was so young. I barely spoke for a long time, they thought I had brain damage from the pensieve cracking me across the skull. Really I was just terrified of them. And I was afraid they’d punish me if they found out what had happened. But that’s why I’m like this. I have all that Adult Stuff bouncing around in my head, and it’s been there since I was a little kid. It’s stuff I shouldn’t have to deal with, but I can’t just let it go without changing who I am.”  
  
He sighed.

“It’s all so pointless, too. The bad things they’ve done. I don’t think they even know why they do them anymore.”

“I can relate,” I said. “Maybe not to having someone else’s memories, but being afraid of my own parents over pointless hatred. It isn’t easy, Jacinto. I still have no idea what I’m going to do after the school year is over.”

Jacinto closed his eyes and leaned back, sinking his head into the pillow of his hospital bed and taking a long deep breath. He even smiled.

“Maybe we could ask the Weasleys to adopt us,” Jacinto said. “Or I’ve heard Harry Potter is privately wealthy. Ask him to buy us a house.”

I laughed, trying but failing to keep my volume down. Grant stuck his head back through the curtain. “And here I thought your secret was serious as a grave, not hilarious. What are you lot tittering about?”

“We’re going to ask Harry Potter to buy us a house,” I repeated, but I could tell by Grant’s skeptical face he didn’t get it. That only made me laugh all the harder.

*******

The events that rounded out that year are, of course, well documented elsewhere. The petrifications were the work of a Basilisk, unleashed by a lingering shade of Voldemort in a diary he had written decades earlier. That shade possessed Ginny Weasley, guided her deep beneath the castle, and intended to feed her to the evil serpent.

And of course there was the usual heroics by Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, the accident that robbed Gilderoy Lockhart of his memories, and the ultimate house cup victory going to Gryffindor, because saving the school from even a memory of Voldemort counts for more than saving a weasel-faced boy you don’t even like from a misguided exchange student. But in saving Malfoy, we had unknowingly saved Jacinto from a course that might have killed him, and in the short term, before and after Chamber of Secrets was finally closed for good, Jacinto became our friend. I think Grant and I hardly realized it at first, but everyone else did; and not knowing what we’d risked for his sake, Draco decided that a friend of mine was an enemy of his.


	19. A Look in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school year comes to an end.

When Professor Lockhart lost his memories, many students, who by this point had long since become sick of the put-on charm that endeared him to so many witches and wizards, had less concern for his quick recovery (lucky for them; it would have been a long wait) and more concern for the question of who would take over as the faculty overseer of the Dueling Club.

In the end, given all that had transpired, nobody took up the job. Nevertheless, as President of the Slytherin club, I insisted that we meet at least one final time on the 3rd of June. The club’s membership had steadily declined over the year, so the final meeting consisted of Arianna Davis as prefect watch dog, myself, Grant, Jacinto, and a couple of upperclassmen named Roy and Bridget. And of course there was Draco Malfoy, who even after the incident with the snake had never quite given up on besting Harry Potter.

Today it was just us Slytherins, though.

“Why did you call this meeting in the first place,” Bridget demanded. “So few of us left, what’s the point?”

“I just want to take stock. I mean do we even want to continue this next year? Captain Vainglory has gone bye-bye. Most everyone else already quit, and I don’t think most of us want to do this again next year.”

“I sure don’t!” said Draco. “Especially if you’re in charge.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Malfoy. If you don’t like the way I’m running things then maybe ask your dad to buy you the election next year. Assuming he can afford it after having to replace that house elf he freed by accident.”

“That was Potter,” he spat. “Potter tricked him.”  
  
I wanted to say something about Lucius Malfoy’s intelligence if a twelve year old boy could fool him so badly, but I bit my tongue and settled for a smug grin.

“I’m definitely leaving if you’re all just going to argue.” Bridget stomped towards the exit. “None of you ever beat me anyway.”  
  
“You’ve not dueled me,” Arianna said, stepping into Bridget’s path with a confident grin. “Let’s see what you got, welp.”  
  
Bridget gulped. A black girl in her fourth year, she was short for her age. Arianna Davis, sixteen and tall, towered over her. I’d never seen Arianna duel—in fact she was primarily there as, in her own words, ‘muggleborn insurance’—ready to pop off a penalty to anyone giving me grief, as she had since I won the vote back in March. But the confidence with which she carried herself and the bright green hair made me think she probably had the wandwork to back up the swagger.

The mostly-empty Great Hall reverberated with each spell the two of them cast, and I stepped to the side and leaned on the wall, observing. Grant pulled Roy onto the floor for some practice; I could sense in their grim-faced lack of enthusiasm that trying to save the club, keep it going next year, was a lost cause.   
  
“So, wanna duel me?” Jacinto said, joining me on the wall.

“No,” I said. “I can’t win against you, not if you take it seriously.”

Jacinto grimaced. “If you could just learn spells by absorbing everyone’s memories through a pensieve, it would be a lot more common. I mean I can access my mom’s spells, but it takes a lot of effort. They’re not my memories, so using them does things to my head, takes me to a darker place. I don’t want to go there anymore.”

“Your mum sounds like a paranoid lady.”  
  
“You don’t know an eighth of it.” Jacinto drew his wand. “So I promise, it’s just me you’re fighting, not Boudicca Neithercut.”  
  
“Why not fight me, instead, blood traitor?” Malfoy leaned back on his center of gravity and crossed his arms over his chest, virtually daring me to tip him the rest of the way over. I shot a glance towards Arianna, but the prefect was still dueling Bridget and hardly seemed to notice Draco’s antagonism.

“Excuse me?” Jacinto said. “I wasn’t talking to you.”  
  
“I’m aware. You were asking your mudblood girlfriend to duel, but she’s no good. Challenge me instead.”

He and Harry Potter may have seen each other as rivals of sorts, but Malfoy barely even saw me. I was worse than a mudblood: I was a mudblood in Slytherin, the house his family had belonged to for generations.

“I’m sorry?” Jacinto said. “Why would I do that? I don’t even like you.”

Draco didn’t let that dissuade him. “You should face a real wizard, blood traitor.”

Jacinto’s face was impassive.

“I _should_ face a real wizard,” he agreed. “Do you see one around?”

“That’s it!” said Draco.

Before I could blink his wand was up a flash and boom muffling the sound of his incantation. Some sort of spark of lightning jumped from his wand and singed the wall between me and Jacinto. Jacinto took the miss as an opportunity and shoved Draco back. He pulled out his wand, and began chanting _Munitio_ before Draco had fired off his next spell. When he did, it was _Expelliarmus._ The red beam danced off Jacinto’s parry and struck the floor, disarming a militant cobblestone.  
  
Draco was in too much of a rage to just let up. Three more attacks came, the first two being light hexes and spells that Jacinto quickly parried, but on the third Draco firmly set his feet and grabbed the wrist of his wand-hand with the other.  
  
“Malleus-Sempra!” he called.

Forever Hammer, the same spell Lockhart had used on Malfoy.

“Damn,” muttered Jacinto. He set his own stance and made a familiar motion with his wand. A pit formed deep in my stomach, and Jacinto said, **“PROTEGO!”**

The green sheen of the Forever Hammer slammed into Jacinto’s shield spell, but the charm quickly buckled. The hammer slammed into Jacinto’s wand arm, and then into his shoulder, forcing him back into the wall of the Great Hall. Jacinto dropped his wand, then he slumped to the floor, groaning.  
  
I had no idea what else was going on in the room; my tunnel vision locked on Draco Malfoy, my wand coming up as he marveled over his victory.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

My wand flashed red, the disarming beam catching Malfoy off guard. His stupid little wand flew out of his hand and whirled toward me. I snatched it out of the air and threw it to the ground. Then I ran, quickly closing the distance between myself and Draco and grabbing the little weasel by the lapel of his shirt.

“If you have a problem with me, pick your fight with me!” I shouted, my nose nearly touching his.

Malfoy reared back, trying to push away from me, but I didn’t let go; then he whirled his hand around and smacked me in the face. It hurt, but I’d had worse. His sweaty hand left a stinging impression, and I pulled him closer and prepared to deck him.

But staring into his eyes, his fear and shock caught me off guard. I’d seen that look in the mirror every morning for weeks after coming to Hogwarts, and now it was mirrored at me again in this stupid little git. He may have been a year higher than me, but he was no older and no smarter; his pure blood made him no better. And for the first time he didn’t just suspect it, he _knew_ it.

And that _terrified_ him.  
  
“Hit me again,” I shrieked. I turned my left cheek to face him. “Come on, you sniveling little coward. Hit the mudblood again. Slap the mudblood; it’ll make you feel better. I know I’d feel better if I could slap around certain people back home. They don’t think I should be at Hogwarts either and I care about their opinions one hell of a lot more than I do about yours.”

Tears were stinging my eyes, but I was still so angry, my face flushed and probably red as firewhiskey.

Malfoy didn’t smack me again. He put his hands on my shoulders and shoved, finally breaking my grip and practically jumping across the room before he stopped and stared at me. “God! You’re a bloody lunatic, Coplin.”

For the first time since Jacinto slammed into the wall, I began to take in the rest of the room. The other duels had stopped and everyone was gawping at me. Bridget handed Arianna her wand—I guess the younger girl won after all—and the prefect stepped in.

“Get out of here, Malfoy. I think we’ve all had enough for one day.”

The prefect paused as Draco left, then turned to the rest of us. “In fact I think it’s clear this just isn’t working out anymore. If we don’t have the other houses we’re just going to piss off each other. Do whatever you all want, I’m out.”

Arianna left, and so did the rest, one by one, until it was just me and Grant, helping Jacinto up and making sure his arm and wand weren’t broken.

 

*******

 

That evening I sat by the fire in the Slytherin dungeon, clutching my Bible and sketch pad but too afraid to open them: the Bible because it might have some harsh words to say about giving into wrath, and my sketchpad because Copi might congratulate me on a job well done. I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear either at the moment. I was still too lost in Draco Malfoy’s eyes—and not in a dreamy lovey-dovey kind of way, because, ew, but because the fear in them had shown me something: I could be the bully too.

Just as easily as Timothy and Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy and Sypha. I could be Pastor Wilkins, the pulpit mercenary who’d taken a contract on my self-esteem as a witch at the behest of my parents, before I’d ever even learned an incantation.  
  
For the first time I truly understood what the Sorting Hat had seen in me that day last September, and wondered if it had put me in a house full of bullies so that I could learn not to be one. Or maybe I was just overthinking it.  
  
“Are you really fond of those books,” said Jacinto, who had approached me very quietly at some point in the last few minutes. “You’ve been hugging them for a while.”

“Just thinking,” I said.  
  
“I’m just thanking,” Jacinto said. “You, I mean. Thank you for standing up for me. My arm is bruised but at least you defended my honor.”

“I’m chivalrous like that,” I said. “Can’t help myself when I see a pretty boy in trouble.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Jacinto practically snorted.   
  
“Don’t read too much into that,” I said. “Malfoy would be pretty if he weren’t sneering all the time. That doesn’t mean I’d wanna have a snog with him.”

“Is that some sort of U.K. Wizard beverage I don’t know of?” Jacinto said, sitting in the chair across from mine.

“Uh no,” I said. “It’s a U.K. Muggle word for making out. Sometimes I forget there are actual things you don’t know.”

“It’s not for lack of trying,” Jacinto said. “But in all seriousness, you don’t think what you did was kind of amazing? Disarming Malfoy and then daring him to hit you. You even turned the other cheek.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite what the Lord had in mind,” I said. “I grabbed him first. I started the fight.”

“No, he started a fight he knew he could win with a younger student. When you disarmed him and made it physical, you changed the rules and he couldn’t cope.”

“I’m lucky I didn’t get in trouble,” I said. But in a way, I did feel better. So I was just as able to be a bully as Draco. I had that dark streak in me, just as Jacinto and Grant did. But when slap came to shove, I recognized it. I could have thrown Malfoy to the ground and wailed on him. Instead I let his own fear defeat him.

God, I really did belong in Slytherin house.  
  
“I suppose you’re going to tell me you masterminded losing the duel so I could humiliate him now,” I said, grinning.

“Please, he just caught me off guard,” Jacinto said. “If I had gone to the Mom Place I would have wiped the floor with him. But I’m resolved not to do that unless I have to.”

“You’ve got to come up with a better name for your superpower than ‘The Mom Place,’” I said, imitating his accent. “What about Boudicca’s Den?”

Jacinto shrugged. “That’s not too far from the truth. My mom sure loved her lion statues. Which is odd since her family in England is Slytherins all the way down, save a few they disowned. They were the Blacks.”

“Not heard of them,” I said.

“Malfoy’s mother was a Black,” said Jacinto. “Pure blood family trees are serious business. And yes, that means there is a distant relationship between my family and Draco’s. Sucks to be a pureblood sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But regardless, I’m glad you came by. It’s going to be tough going home for the summer. I want us to stay in touch but owl-post isn’t exactly convenient in the London suburbs.”

“Or for transatlantic communiques,” said Jacinto. “And Grant’s so far away too, down in South Africa.”

“Well, we’ll manage somehow,” I said, not too sure of it myself. “And if not, we’ll just have that much more to catch up on in September.”

 

*******

 

By the day the Hogwarts Express finally arrived, everyone was beyond ready, the first half of June seeming to drag on and on. It was warm in Hogsmeade, but Grant was over dressed, in long blue jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He even had on a pair of sunglasses, though the day was fairly overcast. He tried to explain that they were the only muggle clothes he had, but they looked so out of place that I only wondered if they’d draw more attention than going in his school uniform would have. As long as you didn’t include the robes, they would have looked just like any other boarding school garb from a distance.

“Have you seen Jacinto?” said Grant. “I know he’s not taking the train to London but he said he’d meet us here.”

“I’m glad you were right about him,” I said off-handedly. “That he wasn’t the Heir, or evil.”

“You should listen to me more often, Michelle.” He scanned the trail that came down from Hogwarts, evidently still not seeing Jacinto. “I’m usually right.”

“Pfft.”

“I am.”

“You’re what?” said Jacinto. He was behind us, not on the trail at all. He must have been in Hogsmeade somehow.

“You were in town by yourself?” I said. “Isn’t that against some rule?”

“Not when school’s out for the summer,” he said. “Besides, Hogsmeade is where I’m meeting my dad’s pilot, so I had to go there.”

“Pilot?” Grant said.

“You’re flying back to America?” I blinked.

“Well, yeah,” said Jacinto. “My dad doesn’t trust anyone with a trans-Atlantic Apperate. It’s easy to misjudge the curvature of the Earth and end up in space. The pilot will Apparate me to an Airfield near Edinburgh and fly me back to the States.”

“Damn,” I said. “I don’t think even Lucius Malfoy as a private jet.”

“That’s more his anti-muggle prejudice than anything, I bet. American wizards tend to be a lot less… traditional.” Jacinto grimaced. “For better or worse.”

Jacinto put down his luggage and opened a huge brown shopping bag, out of which he pulled three books bound in black leather, which looked identical except that each of them had one of our names embroidered in gold on the front cover. I took the one with my own name on it and opened it to find that it was blank. Every other page was line-ruled like notebook paper, though with thin grey lines instead of blue ones. But there was nothing written in it.

“What are these?” said Grant.

“The solution to our problem of keeping in touch,” said Jacinto. “They’re Sympathetic Journals bound with griffon hide and enchanted. Anything written or drawn in one book will appear in the other two, no matter where on Earth we are. I had them made after we talked about staying in touch on the night Malfoy bested me. I was afraid they wouldn’t be finished in time.”

“This is great,” I said. I maneuvered over to hug Jacinto, though Grant stayed put. He wasn’t the hugging type.

“What if we want to have a private message between just two of us?” Grant said. “I’ve been friends with Michelle a lot longer than I’ve been friends with you and there are some things—”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Jacinto said. “I thought of that too. If you write a name that appears on one of the other two journals at the top of the page, that page will only appear in that person’s journal. But you have to spell it right, so remember my name starts with a J and not an H.”  
  
“And my name has two Ls,” I added.   
  
A moment passed with silence between the three of us, until the distant whistle of the train and the rumbling ground pushed us into motion. Jacinto bid Grant and me goodbye and took off down a path towards Hogsmeade, and though he wore a smile I could tell he was not eager to return home. Neither was Grant, by the glum look on his face.   
  
And what about me? I was ambivalent, but predominantly dreading it. I wanted to see Amanda, I wanted to see my parents and my neighbor Rupert, who must have thought I’d fallen off the face the planet. But I knew that it would not be easy: I had made a choice that might drive a wedge between my parents and me for the rest of our lives. I would not give up on them, but I didn’t have high hopes. The dread of that train ride and the rainstorm the Express encountered on the way back down to London put me into a fitful sleep, a dream of parental scorn and shame whose details quickly escaped my waking mind. I only came out of it when Grant shook me awake.  
  
“Michelle,” he said. “We’re at the station.”

“Sod it,” I said, realizing how long I must have been asleep. “I really have to pee.”

“You know where the toilet is,” he said with mild disgust, grabbing his things and opening the door of the car we had shared.   
  
“Don’t come back next year, Da Nasty,” Blaise Zabini called at him, passing by the door.

Grant responded by muttering something unfit to print about his mother. I collected my own belongings and, after making a quick pit stop, disembarked alongside Grant, quickly making our way out of the pocket dimension that held Platform Nine and Three Quarters and into the bustle of mainstream King’s Cross. It was hotter in London than it had been in Hogsmeade, and we had left the rain and clouds behind long ago. The afternoon sun blared down on us, and it must have been murder on the over-dressed Grant. If the heat got to him, though, he didn’t show it on his face. The two of us made our way out of the station. I didn’t see Amanda or her car anywhere, so we waited together, in awkward, sweaty discomfort until a long black limousine slowed to a stop in front of us.  
  
“This is me,” Grant said, as though his ride were a hearse and not a limo. “I’ll stay in touch, Michelle.”  
  
Grant picked up his things and moved toward the vehicle, one of its doors swinging open without any action on Grant’s part, and shut again once he and his luggage were inside. _No greeting or warm hug for him,_ I thought. _Just collecting The Nasty like their dry cleaning._ It almost made my parents seem reasonable. At least they were the way they were out of concern.

It wasn’t long after the Danesti limousine vanished from view that Amanda’s old Ford rolled to a stop in a nearby parking space. I rushed off toward her so fast that I nearly forgot my luggage and had to turn around and grab it. It occurred to me how much I had—on top of what I’d brought with me, clothes and other items my family had sent me, as well as gifts and mementos from the other girls in my dorm, and even the Sympathy Diaries that Jacinto’d had made—which were not small books by any means—had swelled the size of my bags considerably. I hoped Amanda didn’t have anything greenhouse supplies in her car or it might not all fit.

She led me around to the boot and opened it. It was empty save for a small toolkit, but there was no way all my bags would fit. Then Amanda grabbed a strap attached to a Velcro fastener and pulled it, lifting up a panel at the bottom that led deep into a huge space that would never fit in the car itself.

“Was that there this whole time?” I said, staring up at her.  
  
“I thought I’d start you off without the TARDIS-shock,” Amanda said. “Oh, gosh, am I showing my age with that, do you even know what—”

“I’ve seen _Doctor Who_ ,” I said stiffly. “We bought Mum and Dad those laserdiscs for Christmas remember?”  
  
“Oh yes,” she said. “About your parents…”

“What about them?” I said. “I know it would be silly to drive out to your place and then drive back to London when I’m ready to see them, but—”

“Get ready,” said Amanda. “I promised them I’d take you home. You don’t have to stay the night if you don’t want to, but—”

“Really?” I said, shoving my belongings into the car more forcefully than I should have. “Shouldn’t I have a say in this?”

“They’re your parents,” Amanda said. “And you’re twelve. That makes them still your legal guardians.”

“Not twelve for much longer,” I said, though it sounded petulant even to me.   
  
“Please, honey,” Amanda knelt, resting her forehead on mine. “Do this for me. I really don’t want to be arrested for kidnapping. _Again_.”

I bit my upper lip hard to stop myself from mouthing off, and nodded. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be fine. I just need to see them and show them that I’m still me. I’m still Michelle.”

“One more thing,” Amanda said. “I’d like you to slide down in there and change into your school robes.”  
  
“That will just piss them off,” I said. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”   
  
I looked down. It was ruffled and soaked in sweat, which sort of ruined my rhetorical point. “I mean aside the fact I slept in them through an eight-hour train ride.”

Amanda didn’t even answer, so I climbed down into the secret boot chamber of the car before Amanda slammed the lid shut.

 

*******

 

I caught myself holding my breath as Amanda’s car pulled into the narrow drive at my parents’ house, as if slowing my breathing could prolong the time I had to prepare. I was decked out in my Slytherin robes, feeling ill at ease and out of place in London, where I had lived my whole life up to the previous summer. I moved closer to the door, even as Amanda simply vanished with all my belongings and reappeared seconds later at my side. I took it that she’d dropped them off in my room, though before I could confirm that, the door opened.   
  
My mother looked thinner than I had remembered her, her worry lines deeper. Beside her my father seemed somehow grayer than he had been, even at Christmas time. Was it just me or had my mum been crying?   
  
“Hi,” I said weakly.

“Michelle,” my mum leaned down and pulled me close, and if she hadn’t been crying before she was now, though even as she held me I could sense her apprehension and a sort of distance in her embrace. “Oh my sweet baby.”

“Welcome home,” my dad said, practically pushing my mother out of the way and lifting me up before hugging me. “Are you okay? You’ve grown a foot.”

“No I haven’t,” I said. It was really just a few inches, I think. “You’re not nearly as furious as was expecting.”

There was silence, my dad put me down, and invited me and Amanda into the house. Mum pointedly shut the door behind us, no doubt fearing the neighbors’ curiosity at why that Coplin girl was dressed so funny.  
  
“We weren’t really angry with you,” said Mum, voice still trembling. “With Amanda, sure. But you, we were only worried about.”  
  
“And we expressed it poorly,” Dad quickly added. “And even though we don’t understand—”

“—or approve—” Mom interjected.

“—about all this Hogwarts stuff, we know it’s important to you. So we’re going to try.”   
  
“We never wanted to push you away.” Mum crashed into a chair in the parlour, the parlour where rampaging dogs had given me the first inkling of my Aunt’s magical skills that day that now seemed so long ago. “And I’ll have you know, we left that church.”

“What?” I said, my attention suddenly focused on my mother. “You’ve been in that church since I can remember.”

“Pastor Wilkins just took it too far for us,” said Dad. “I mean at first I thought he could preach some sense into all this madness but he kept pressing us for updates, asking us where you were, how to get to Hogwarts. It gave us rather a fright. I knew he was passionate but I didn’t realize he was…”

He trailed off.

“A fanatic,” Amanda said. She approached my mother and took her by both hands. For all their differences, they were still step-sisters.

“If I remember correctly, that fire in the preacher’s gut is why you started there in the first place. My God, Olivia, do you remember what you told me the day Michelle was dedicated? That the church was going to help you raise Michelle right. I didn’t say all I wanted to then, but I hope you see now that that Pastor almost cost you your daughter.”

“I couldn’t see it then,” Mom said. “God forgive me.”

“I forgive you too,” I said, holding my mother’s hand, squeezing it so tightly as though I could just press all my emotions into her subcutaneously and not break down crying myself. It didn’t work quite as well as I had hoped, and I turned away to dry my eyes. When I looked up again, something caught my gaze. My reflection in the mirrored wall at the far end of the room. I had seen the image before, though the colors were gold and red at the time; now silver and green. Me, in Hogwarts robes, my cross necklace hanging loose. My parents, if not approving, then contrite and trying, a few paces behind me. It was not quite what I had seen in the Mirror of Erised, but…  
  
For now, it was close enough.

 

*******

 

After the four of us broke down bawling for half an hour, I felt the need to think a bit. As Amanda stayed downstairs with my parents, I crept up stairs, showered, and changed into something a bit more Muggle-friendly. It was already early evening by this time, and though Jacinto might have been home depending on when his flight left, there was no way Grant had made it all the way to South Africa in a limo. Unless they’d used Floo or risked trans-continental apparition, they were still in transit. Nevertheless I flipped open my Sympathetic Journal, grabbed a pen from my dresser—and it was so good to hold a pen again after writing with quills throughout the school year—and wrote on the first page.  
  
_Boys, I’m home now. Say something when you can. – M._

A few seconds after I finished writing, the ink turned deep green. Jacinto had said that his messages would show up in brown and Grant’s in red, so I guessed green was me. Each of us wrote with the colour of our eyes. I left the journal open on a trunk near my closet and looked around my room. My VCR sat where it always had, a patina of dust on top of it, and unless my parents had removed it, I supposed _The Princess Bride_ still rested in the deck. I was amazed that something so familiar could feel so foreign at the same time. That something could be simultaneously mundane and magic: I’d learned to do without technology at Hogwarts, and coming back home now, the ease of entertainment seemed almost criminal.

And without Grant and Jacinto, Josie and Artemis… lonely. I waited with my thoughts for a while, hoping they’d resolve themselves. Finally there was a knock at my door. I said nothing, barely noticing it, until Amanda pushed in. “Sweetie, are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s been a long day. Are you going to stay here tonight? It’s a long drive to Beverley.”

“Your parents said I could park my car here,” she said. “But I think I’ll apparate home for the evening. Just call me if you need anything.”  
  
Amanda pointed her hand at the closet and motioned. The broom—the Roc-360 she’d given me for my birthday last year—hovered out into her hand. “And if you just need to get away for a while, I stashed this here for you. Just don’t let anyone see you use it.”

“Thank you. Safe trip,” I said. “Don’t forget the curvature of the Earth.”  
  
I remembered what Jacinto told me that morning, but Amanda could probably handle it. It was just half of England after all.

 

*******

 

There wasn’t a lot of Saturday evening left by the time I emerged from my room, and I worried that I wouldn’t catch Rupert tomorrow. I didn’t know if—and if yes, where—my parents planned on going to church tomorrow, but I figured Rupert would; I couldn’t go back there, not to that place, even for Rupert. And his school would not go on holiday for another week or so.

I wanted him to know I was back now. That I was alive.

Two houses down, I knocked on the door, and it took a few moments before it opened. Rupert’s mother stared at me with a bit of wonder at first, until it registered who I was.

“Michelle? Goodness, I haven’t seen you in—”  
  
“It’s been a while, Mrs. G,” I said. “I was away at school. But is Rupert home?”

She nodded. “Of course. He’s been dreadfully upset with your parents for sending you off like that.”

“It really wasn’t their idea,” I said, hoping my tone made it clear I didn’t want to talk about it. Well, I couldn’t talk about it, legally: the statute of Wizarding secrecy and all.   
  
Evidently my voice carried to the den, because suddenly Rupert appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and hall, a good head taller than I remembered him, his brown hair a mess. He had on a Manchester United shirt even though he hated football (last I heard) and jean shorts. I whispered a prayer that the enamored stare I was giving him wasn’t too noticeable. I had never thought of him as anything more than a friend, but damn him for getting fit just because I went away for a year.

“My God, Michelle. I could have sworn you were dead. I thought all that rubbish about boarding school was just a cover-up.”   
  
I looked at the floor. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “It’s all true.”

“Even the parts where you joined a cult and became a witch?” he said.  
  
“Rupert!” his mother scolded.  
  
I was already rushing towards him for a completely platonic hug and calculating a vague denial that didn’t actually contain an outright lie.  
  
“Where’d you hear a daft story like that?” I said, wrapping him in the long-anticipated hug. _Oh god, is he wearing aftershave? Does he **shave** now? What else have I missed? Have I been gone one year or six?_  
  
“Well, there were rumors at church is all,” he said. “Some of the kids—”

“Rupert, please. I’m sure Michelle doesn’t want to hear about those rumors.”   
  
“Oh, no,” I said. “I don’t mind. Please, I want to know what these ‘kids at church’ have been telling people while I was away. Sounds like a laugh. Let’s talk about it while stomping some Goombas.”

I forcibly led him out of the room, and though he didn’t resist too much it was beginning to dawn on me that he hadn’t just gotten taller, but he was stronger too.   
  
“You won’t believe it,” he said after a minute. “Some of the things they said. Like you sacrificed kittens to Satan. And Nicki said you were going to blow yourself up at the Ford dealership to protest petrol-guzzling cars.”

“Wow,” I said, sitting in front of his telly. “I’ve had a really rough year but I think you can see I’m still in one piece. And—I stopped mid-sentence. There, in front of the TV, was a Super Nintendo. _SUPER._ He noticed me staring at it and laughed.  
  
“Oh yeah. I got that for Christmas and now I’ve had it long enough I forgot it’s kind of new. Did you get anything interesting.”  
  
“Magic powers from Satan,” I said. Then laughed. “No, mostly just socks.”   
  
I leaned forward and slid the purple switch forward. The Wizarding World could wait. I had S _uper Mario World_ to keep me busy in the meantime.

“Dibs on Luigi,” I said.

“You don’t call dibs on player two.”  
  
“Green is my color. I want Luigi.”  
  
“You can have him. Nobody likes Luigi.”  
  
“Luigi is the best bro, you ponce.”

“The second best, dreamer—”

“I’ll save the princess before you.”

“You’re on, Coplin.”

 

*******

 

It was late by the time I got back to my bed room, and I remembered as I walked in that the Journal was still open. I flipped on the light and saw two more lines of text added to my own.

 _I’m home and so far nobody has been murdered, which is better than I was expecting._ Jacinto wrote in brown. _Also I forgot how much I missed pizza._  
  
In red, Grant added, _Just arrived in Capetown. Sophitia and Jilll are avoiding me. That’s odd, but I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.  
  
_ Below their words, I drew a smiley face in the margins, and added a message of my own.   
  
_Let’s make a pact then. We’ll enjoy it while it lasts, whatever “it” is._

 _So sworn,_ wrote Jacinto.   
  
And Grant said:  
  
_Amen._


	20. The Boy Who Lived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

Nothing lasts forever, especially good things. Grant and Jacinto both confirmed that they were being sent off to Hogwarts again; their parents’ respective enemies were just too well entrenched at the local schools, etc, etc. If they were ambivalent about it, they didn’t convey it in the Journal.

Summer came to an end too fast, and though I was eager to see my friends at Hogwarts again, to get away from the restrictions on underage magic use and the wary eyes of my parents, who forbade magic in their house as if it weren’t already against the law, I didn’t want to leave them alone and let them get dragged back into their fear for me.

The odd thing was, they never chose a new church. They went to a few services, (though I opted out thanks to sheer moral terror), but they never seemed satisfied with the places they went. It seemed their faith in God hadn’t been weakened, but their trust in their fellow human beings had been irreparably scarred. And they in turn scarred Rupert’s family, not telling them of Hogwarts but making it clear the implicit menace in Pastor Wilkins’ interest in the so-called ‘rumors’ about me joining a cult. In the end, they left the church too. Given all that, I hated having to keep Rupert in the dark while I went away for another six months, but that was the law.

 

*******

 

Staring at the newspaper in front of me, the snarling face of Sirius Black on the front, I wondered if my parents weren’t on to something losing faith in humanity. His name: Black—the same name that both Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Neithercut had once shared, conjured ideas of his motives, his reasons for killing those twelve Muggles, though the paper said nothing about him being a Death Eater.

Amanda sat down beside me, placing two sundaes on the table. I finally got to meet Florean Fortescue shopping for my school books this year, and he was far kinder than the crotchety old woman who’d served me ice cream a year ago.

“Something’s never felt right about that,” Amanda said. I looked at her blankly for a minute, until she pointed at the copy of the _Daily Prophet_. “I knew him, Sirius Black. Not well, but I can hardly believe he’d have committed those murders. But there was an eyewitness: the minister of magic himself.”  
  
“It says he escaped from something called Azkaban. What’s that?”

Amanda shuddered. “A prison. Awful place that makes Muggle jails look like a spa day.”

“Man,” I said. “Even if he didn’t kill those people back in then, twelve years in a place would probably make him a raving lunatic. I hope they catch him.”  
  
“It would put a lot of people at ease if they did,” Amanda said. “I need to stop at Gringotts to make a withdrawal. You’ll be fine here for a bit, dear?”

“I think I’ll manage,” I said before shoving another spoon full of ice cream into my mouth. When Amanda slipped through the doors of the bank and out of sight, I turned my attention to the checklist of things I’d need for this year of school. It looked like it would be pretty pricey, and though my parents were no longer making with the guilt trips, they still wouldn’t contribute any money to my schooling. I wished I didn’t have to be a burden on Amanda, but she never complained about it.

I finished my sundae and went to return the bowl and spoon, but my eyes were so focused on the shop that I didn’t notice I was stepping out in front of someone until he collided with me. Both his bowl and mine clattered to the ground, though one of them rolling across his foot and depositing chocolate ice cream stains on his jeans, which seemed a mite too big for him.  
  
I grabbed an unused napkin from my table and started wiping the stain off as I stood up, apologizing.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I should have paid more atten—”

I stopped mid-sentence when I saw the scar on his forehead, half covered by streaks of dark hair.

“It’s alright, really,” he said. “I could have been more careful too.”

“Whoa,” I said. “You. You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry’s cheeks reddened and he turned away. Quietly, he said, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I just… I’ve seen you at the Dueling Club last year, but we’ve never actually spoken.” I extended a hand. It wasn’t every day I got to meet cute with someone famous. “Michelle Coplin.”

Harry took my hand and shook it, though he still seemed more embarrassed than anything. He wasn’t at all what I was expecting, given that he’d taken on Voldemort three times and won.   
  
“I knew you looked familiar,” Harry said, as we both deposited our bowls at the counter and Florean took them to be washed. “You’re a Slytherin aren’t you? I’m surprised you don’t hate my guts.”

“Not everyone in Slytherin is like Malfoy,” I said. “Though I could see how you’d get that impression. I’m actually Muggleborn myself.”

Harry Potter’s eyes widened. “That sounds awful. I can’t imagine. It must be hard now that summer’s nearly over.”

“I got by last year,” I said. “I know it will be hard, but I’m eager to go back. I think I can help all the Muggleborns at school by showing Slytherins that we’re not what their parents say we are.”  
  
“Wow, with that attitude you might just change the house,” Harry said, though he sounded very skeptical. “It was good talking to you, anyway. I have to get back to this homework, though. I have no idea what a Thestral even is and I have to write an essay on what potions their pituitary glands are good for.”

“Good luck with that. And sorry again for ruining your jeans,” I said. I waited by the counter for Harry to get back to his table. He continued working, and if he gave our talk a second thought, he didn’t give any indication. It dawned on me how awkward it must have been to be celebrated and famous for something that you did by accident as an infant. From what I’d heard, Harry hadn’t even grown up knowing he was a wizard. It must have all been as much a culture shock to him as it had been to me.

The fact that he wasn’t nearly as arrogant as I’d been lead to believe seemed all the more amazing.   
  
I left the ice cream shop and joined Amanda as she was leaving the bank (the Goblins creeped me out, so I refused to go inside.) Her satchel was full of coins now, and as we set off toward the book shop, I told her about my encounter with Potter.

“I think what’s most remarkable is how everyone acts like he beat Voldemort himself,” Amanda said. I looked around for anyone offended by the use of his name, but I guess nobody had heard her. “I have no doubt in my mind that it was his mother that actually did it.”

“His mother?” I said.

“Lily Potter. She saved my life once, during the war. When Paul was killed I went off half-cocked looking for Amycus Carrow. I found Antonin Dolohov instead. He was the Dark Lord’s enforcer and torturer. He killed Molly Weasley’s brothers, two of the most skilled wizards in England. Alone, I was out-matched, but Lily had followed me. She said she knew what I was going to do because she’d have done the same thing if James had been killed.”  
  
We both stopped in front of the book store. Amanda rested a hand on my shoulder.

“She was a bit younger than me, but she was brilliant. We overpowered Dolohov together, and thanks to wounds she gave him, he was soon captured and sent to Azkaban. So I have no doubt that Lily was responsible for You-Know-Who’s demise, even if she didn’t survive to take the credit.”  
  
“Her name was Lily?” I said, remembering the old binder from the Sunday I spent in the hospital wing. “Was she by any chance Lily Evans before she got married?”

Amanda paused mid motion. “Yes. How did you know that?”  
  
I looked back at the ice cream shop. I could no longer see Harry Potter, but I knew he was still there, and I knew that through her work, future lives would be saved. The Wizarding World was so interconnected, and there were so few of us compared to Muggles. It made no sense to waste life on petty wars, and for the first time I thought I could see the hand of Providence in everything that had transpired, not just in the past year for me, but through my life, and Amanda’s, and Harry Potter’s up until then. And I knew things would work out, somehow.

I smiled at Amanda.  
  
“Lily Evans saved my life too.”


End file.
